iiijilil! 


mill 


i 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.CHARLES  A.KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.KOFOID 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


THE  SILVER  BRACELET,  WALPI. 


Frontispiece 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


UPS  AND   DOWNS 
OF  FRONTIER  MOTORING 


BY 

WINIFRED  HAWKRIDGE  DIXON 


PHOTOGRAPHS    BY 
KATHERINE   THAXTER   AND    ROLLIN    LESTER   DIXON 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1924 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


f 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     WESTWARD  Ho! i 

II.    FROM  NEW  YORK  TO  ANTOINE'S      ....  7 

III.  A  LONG  WAYS  FROM  HOME 15 

IV.  CHIVALRY  vs.  GUMBO 25 

V.    NIBBLING  AT  THE  MAP  OF  TEXAS   ....  35 

VI.    "DOWN  BY  THE  Rio  GRANDE" 47 

VII.    SANDSTORMS,  BANDITS  AND  DEAD  SOLDIERS    .  60 

VIII.    TUCSON 74 

IX.    TWENTY  PER  CENT  GRADES,  FORTY  PER  CENT 

VANILLA 82 

X.    THE  APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY  .     .  98 

XI.    FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH 121 

XII.    WHY  ISLETA'S  CHURCH  HAS  A  WOODEN  FLOOR   .  148 

XIII.  SANTE    FE    AND    THE   VALLEY    or    THE    Rio 

GRANDE 160 

XIV.  SAYING  GOOD-BY  TO  BILL 190 

XV.    LACUNA  AND  ACOMA 204 

XVI.    THE    GRAND   CANYON   AND   THE   HAVASUPAI 

CANYON  220 


M309281 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII.  FROM  WILLIAMS  TO  FORT  APACHE  ....  234 

XVIII.  THE  LAND  OF  THE  HOPIS 244 

XIX.  THE  FOUR  CORNERS 258 

XX.  RAINBOW  BRIDGE 270 

XXI.  THE  CANYON  DE  CHELLEY 296 

XXII.  NORTH  OF  GALLUP 308 

XXIII.  ON  NATIONAL  PARKS  AND  GUIDES  .     .     .     .  326 

XXIV.  THE  NAIL-FILE  AND  THE  CHIPPEWA      .     .     .  346 
XXV.  HOMEWARD  HOBOES 358 


vi 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  silver  bracelet,  Walpi Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

Our  first  camp,  Texas 52 

San  Xavier  Del  Bac,  Tucson,  and  the  Rapago  Indian  village  76 

Doorway  of  San  Xavier  Del  Bac,  Tucson 78 

Great   rocks   seem   to   float    on    the    stream,   mysteriously 

lighted,  like  Bocklin's  isle  of  the  dead 116 

Natural  bridge,  Pine,  Arizona 118 

The  church  at  Isleta 152 

Her  bread  was  baked,  delicious  and  crusty,  in  the  round  out- 
door ovens  her  grandmothers  used  as  far  back  as  B.  C. 

or  so 154 

Against  a  shady  wall,  all  but  too  lazy  to  light  the  inevitable 

cigarette,  slouches,  wherever  one  turns,  a  Mexican   .      .  164 

A  Mexican  morado,  New  Mexico 166 

The  museum  of  Santa  Fe 166 

Santa  Domingo  woman 176 

Taos  woman 176 

Koshari:  rain  dance:  San  Yldefonso 176 

Rain  dance,  San  Yldefonso 178 

Cave  dwellings  in  the  pumice  walls  of  Canyon  de  Los  Fri- 

joles,  Santa  Fe • 182 

Artist's  studio  in  Taos,  New  Mexico 188 

vii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PACE 

Coronado  was  the  first  white  man  to  visit  this  ancient  pueblo 

at  Taos,  New  Mexico 188 

The  car  sagged  drunkenly  on  one  side 200 

Fording  a  river  near  Santa  Fe 200 

On  the  way  to  Gallup 200 

Pueblo  women  grinding  corn  in  metate  bins 206 

Pueblo  woman  wrapping  deer-skin  leggins 206 

Acoma,  New  Mexico 212 

Burros  laden  with  fire-wood,  Santa  Fe,  New  Mexico        .      .  212 

At  the  foot  of  the  trail,  Acoma   ... 214 

The  enchanted  mesa,  Acoma,  New  Mexico 214 

A  street  in  Acoma,  New  Mexico 218 

The  Acoma  Mission,  New  Mexico 218 

In  the  Grand  Canyon  of  the  Colorado 222 

A  Navajo  maid  on  a  painted  pony 222 

The  land  of  the  sky-blue  water,  Havasupai  Canyon,  Arizona  224 

Horseman  in  Havasupai  Canyon,  Arizona 226 

Panorama  of  Havasupai  Canyon,  Arizona 228 

Mooney's  Fall,  Havasupai  Canyon,  Arizona 232 

A  trout  stream  in  the  White  Mountains,  Arizona       .     .      .  240 

The  village  of  Walpi 250 

Oldest  house  in  Walpi 250 

Young   eaglet   captured   for   use   in   the   Hopi   snake-dance 

ceremonies 254 

Second  mesa,  Hopi  Reservation  .      . 256 

A  Hotavilla  Sybil 256 

viii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

Navajo  Mountain  from  the  mouth  of  Segi  Canyon     .      .      .  278 

Rainbow  Bridge  Trail  near  Navajo  Mountain       .      .      .      .  282 

Crossing  Bald  Rock,  on  Rainbow  Bridge  Trail      ....  284 

Rainbow  Bridge,  Utah 286 

Monument  country,  Rainbow  Trail 294 

Rainbow  Bridge  Trail 294 

Entrance  to  the  Canyon  de  Chelley 298 

Quicksand;  Canyon  de  Chelley 300 

Near  the  entrance  of  Canyon  de  Chelley,  Arizona      .      .      .  302 

Cliff-dwellings,  Canyon  de  Chelley,  Arizona 304 

Casa  Blanca,  Canyon  de  Chelley,  Arizona 306 

Navajo  sheep-dipping  at  Shiprock 312 

Cliff-dwellings,  Mesa  Verde  Park,  Colorado      .      .      .      .      .  316 

Shoshones  at  sun  dance,  Fort  Hall,  Idaho 322 

A  Shoshone  teepee,  Fort  Hall,  Idaho 324 

Camping  near  Yellowstone  Park 328 

Grand  Canyon,  Yellowstone  Park 330 

Glacier  Park,  Montana 332 

Blackfeet  Indians  at  Glacier  Park,  Montana 336 

Two  Medicine  Lake,  Glacier  Park,  Montana 344 

Wrangling  horses,  Glacier  Park,  Montana 344 

A  Mormon  irrigated  village 354 

The  "Million  Dollar"  Mormon  Temple  at  Cardston,  Alberta, 

Canada 354 


IX 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


CHAPTER  I 
"WESTWARD  HO!" 

TOBY'S  real  name  is  Katharine.  Her  grandmother 
was  a  poet,  her  father  is  a  scientist,  and  she  is  an 
artist.  She  is  called  Toby  for  Uncle  Jonas'  dog,  who 
had  the  habit,  on  being  kicked  out  of  the  door,  of  running 
down  the  steps  with  a  cheerful  bark  and  a  wagging  tail,  as 
if  he  had  left  entirely  of  his  own  accord.  There  is  no 
fact,  however  circumstantially  incriminating,  which  this 
young  doctrinaire  cannot  turn  into  the  most  potent  justi- 
fication for  what  she  has  done  or  wishes  to  do,  and  when 
she  gets  to  the  tail  wagging  stage,  regardless  of  how  re- 
cently the  bang  of  the  front  door  has  echoed  in  our  ears, 
she  wags  with  the  charm  of  the  artist,  the  logical  pre- 
cision of  the  scientist,  and  the  ardor  of  the  poet.  Even 

when  she  ran  the  car  into  the  creek  at  Nambe 

At  the  outset  we  did  not  plan  to  make  the  journey  by 
automobile.  Our  destination  was  uncertain.  We  planned 
to  drift,  to  sketch  and  write  when  the  spirit  moved.  But 
drifting  by  railroad  in  the  West  implies  time-tables, 
crowded  trains,  boudoir-capped  matrons,  crying  babies 
and  the  smell  of  bananas,  long  waits  and  anxiety  over 
reservations.  Traveling  by  auto  seemed  luxurious  in 
comparison  and  would  save  railroad  fares,  annoyance 


2  .WESTWARD  HOBOES 

and  time.  We  pictured  ourselves  bowling  smoothly  along 
in  the  open  air,  in  contrast  with  the  stifling  train ;  we  pre- 
visioned  no  delays,  no  breakdowns,  no  dangers;  we  saw 
New  Mexico  and  Arizona  a  motorist's  Heaven,  paved 
with  asphalt  and  running  streams  of  gasoline.  An  opti- 
mist is  always  like  that,  and  two  are  twenty  times  so.  I 
was  half-owner  of  a  Cadillac  Eight,  with  a  rakish 
hood  and  a  matronly  tonneau ;  its  front  was  intimidating, 
its  rear  reassuring.  The  owner  of  the  other  half  was 
safely  in  France.  At  the  time,  which  half  belonged  to 
which  had  not  been  discussed.  It  is  now  a  burning  ques- 
tion. I  figure  that  the  springs,  the  dust-pan,  the  paint, 
mud-guards  and  tires  constituted  her  share,  with  a  few 
bushings  and  nuts  thrown  in  for  good  measure,  but  hav- 
ing acquired  a  mercenary  disposition  in  France,  she  dif- 
fers from  me. 

What  I  knew  of  the  bowels  of  a  car  had  been  gained, 
not  from  systematic  research,  but  bitter  experience  with 
mutinous  parts,  in  ten  years'  progress  through  two,  four, 
six  and  finally  eight-cylinder  motors  of  widely  varying 
temperaments.  I  had  taken  no  course  in  mechanics,  and 
had,  and  still  have,  a  way  of  confusing  the  differential 
with  the  transmission.  But  I  love  to  tinker  I  In  the  old 
two-cylinder  days,  when  the  carburetor  flooded  I  would 
weigh  it  down  with  a  few  pebbles  and  a  hairpin,  and 
when  the  feed  became  too  scanty,  I  would  take  the  hair- 
pin out  and  leave  the  pebbles  in.  I  had  a  smattering 
knowledge  of  all  the  deviltry  defective  batteries,  leaky 
radiators,  frozen  steering-wheels,  cranky  generators, 
wrongly-hung  springs,  stripped  gears  and  slipping  clutches 
can  perpetrate,  but  those  parts  which  commonly  behaved 
themselves  I  left  severely  alone.  Toby  could  not  drive, 


"WESTWARD    HO!"  3 

but  a  few  lessons  made  her  an  apt  pupil.  She  paid  her 
money  to  the  Commonwealth  of  Massachusetts  for  a 
license,  and  one  sparkling  evening  in  early  February  we 
started  for  Springfield.  We  were  to  cover  thirteen  thou- 
sand miles  before  we  saw  Boston  again, — eleven  thou- 
sand by  motor  and  the  rest  by  steamship  and  horseback. 
As  I  threw  in  the  clutch,  we  heard  a  woman's  voice 
calling  after  us.  It  was  Toby's  mother,  and  what  she 
said  was,  "Don't  drive  at  night!" 

In  New  York  we  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  map — 
which  later  was  to  become  thumbed,  torn  and  soiled.  A 
delightful  map  it  was,  furnished  by  the  A.A.A.,  with  an 
index  specially  prepared  for  us  of  every  Indian  reserva- 
tion, natural  marvel,  scenic  and  historical  spot  along  the 
ridgepole  of  the  Rockies,  from  Mexico,  to  Canada.  Who 
could  read  the  intriguing  list  of  names, — Needles,  Flag- 
staff, Moab,  Skull  Valley,  Keams  Canyon,  Fort  Apache, 
Tombstone,  Rodeo,  Kalispell,  Lost  Cabin,  Hatchita, 
Rosebud,  Roundup,  Buckeye,  Ten  Sleep,  Bowie  and  Bluff, 
Winnemucca, — and  stop  at  home  in  Boston?  We  were 
bent  on  discovering  whether  they  lived  up  to  their 
names,  whether  Skull  Valley  was  a  scattered  outpost  of 
the  desert  with  mysterious  night-riders,  stampeding  steer, 
gold-seekers,  cattle  thieves  and  painted  ladies,  or  had 
achieved  virtue  in  a  Rexall  drugstore,  a  Harvey  lunch- 
room, a  jazz  parlor,  a  Chamber  of  Commerce,  an  Elks' 
Hall,  and  a  three  story  granite  postoffice  donated  by  a 
grateful  administration?  Which  glory  is  now  Skull  Val- 
ley's we  do  not  yet  know,  but  depend  on  it,  it  is  either  one 
or  the  other.  The  old  movie  life  of  the  frontier  is  not 
obsolete,  only  obsolescent,  provided  one  knows  where  to 


4  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

look.  But  the  day  after  it  vanishes  a  thriving  city  has 
arrived  at  adolescence  and  "Frank's"  and  "Bill's"  have 
placed  a  liveried  black  at  their  doors,  and  provided  the 
ladies'  parlor  upstairs  with  three  kinds  of  rouge. 

It  was  love  at  first  sight — our  map  and  us.  Pima  and 
Maricopa  Indians,  Zuni  and  Laguna  pueblos,  the  Rain- 
bow Bridge  and  Havasupai  Canyon  beckoned  to  us  and 
hinted  their  mysteries;  our  itinerary  widened  until  it 
included  vaguely  everything  there  was  to  see.  We  made 
only  one  reservation — we  would  not  visit  California. 
California  was  the  West,  dehorned;  it  possessed  climate, 
boulevards  and  conveniences;  but  it  also  possessed  sand 
fleas  and  native  sons.  It  was  a  little  thing  which  caused 
us  to  make  this  decision,  but  epochal.  At  the  San  Fran- 
cisco Exposition,  I  had  seen  a  long  procession  of  Native 
Sons,  dressed  in  their  native  gold — a  procession  thou- 
sands strong.  Knowing  what  one  native  son  can  do  when 
he  begins  on  his  favorite  topic  of  conversation,  we  dared 
not  trust  ourselves  to  an  army  of  them,  an  army  militant. 

What  we  planned  to  do  was  harder  and  less  usual. 
We  would  follow  the  old  trails,  immigrant  trails,  cattle 
trails,  traders'  routes, — mountain  roads  which  a  long 
procession  of  cliff  dwellers,  Spanish  friars,  gold  seekers, 
Apache  marauders,  prospectors,  Mormons  and  scouts  had 
trod  in  five  centuries,  and  left  as  they  found  them,  mere 
footprints  in  the  dust.  The  Southwest  has  been  explored 
afoot  and  on  horse,  by  prairie  schooners,  burro,  and 
locomotive;  the  modern  pioneer  rattles  his  weather 
beaten  flivver  on  business  between  Gallup  and  Santa  Fe, 
Tucson  and  El  Paso,  and  thinks  nothing  of  it,  but  the 
country  is  still  new  to  the  motoring  tourist.  Because  a 
car  must  have  the  attributes  of  a  hurdler  and  a  tight- 


"WESTWARD    HO!"  5 

rope  walker,  be  amphibious  and  fool-proof,  have  a  bea- 
gle's nose  for  half-obliterated  tracks,  thrill  to  the  tug 
of  sand  and  mud,  and  own  a  constitution  strong  enough 
to  withstand  all  experiments  of  provincial  garage-men, 
few  merciful  car  owners  will  put  it  through  the  supreme 
agony.  Had  not  the  roads  looked  so  smooth  on  the  map 
we  wouldn't  have  tried  them  ourselves. 

And  then,  in  New  York,  we  met  another  optimist,  and 
two  and  one  make  three.  It  was  not  until  long  afterward, 
when  we  met  the  roads  he  described  as  passable,  that  we 
discovered  he  was  an  optimist.  He  had  motored  through 
every  section  of  the  West,  and  paid  us  the  compliment  of 
believing  we  could  do  the  same.  When  he  presented  us 
with  our  elaborate  and  beautiful  itinerary  he  asked  no 
questions  about  our  skill  and  courage.  He  told  us  to  buy 
an  axe  and  a  shovel,  and  carry  a  rope.  A  tent  he  advised 
as  well,  and  such  babes  in  the  woods  were  we,  the  idea 
had  not  occurred  to  us. 

"And  carry  a  pistol?"  asked  Toby,  eagerly. 

"Never !  You  will  be  as  safe — or  safer  than  you  are 
in  New  York  City."  Toby  was  disappointed,  but  I  heard 
him  with  relief.  By  nature  gun-shy,  I  have  seen  too  many 
war-dramas  not  to  know  that  a  pistol  never  shoots  the 
person  originally  aimed  at.  The  procedure  never  varies. 
A  pulls  a  gun,  points  it  at  B.  B,  unflinching,  engages  A 
in  light  conversation.  Diverted,  A  absent-mindedly  puts 
down  the  gun,  which  B  picks  up,  shooting  to  kill.  I 
realized  that  as  B  my  chances  were  better  than  as  A, 
for  while  I  would  surely  fall  under  the  spell  of  a  western 
outlaw's  quaint  humor  and  racy  diction  and  thus  hand 
over  the  weapon  into  his  keeping,  the  chances  were  that 
he  might  be  equally  undermined  by  our  Boston  r's,  and 


6  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

the  appeal  to  his  rough  Western  chivalry  which  we  in- 
tended to  make.  Toby  held  out  for  an  ammonia  pistol. 
We  did  debate  this  for  a  while,  but  in  the  excitement  of 
buying  our  tent  we  forgot  the  pistol  entirely. 

Our  Optimist  directed  us  to  a  nearby  sports'-goods 
shop,  recommending  us  to  the  care  of  a  certain  "Reggi," 
who,  he  guaranteed,  would  not  try  to  sell  us  the  entire 
store.  Confidently  we  sought  the  place, — a  paradise 
where  elk-skin  boots,  fleecy  mufflers,  sleeping  bags,  leather 
coats,  pink  hunting  habits  and  folding  stoves  lure  the 
very  pocketbooks  out  of  one's  hands.  We  asked  for 
Mr.  Reggi,  who  did  not  look  as  Italian  as  his  name.  He 
proved  a  sympathetic  guide,  steering  us  to  the  camping 
department.  He  restrained  himself  from  selling  the  most 
expensive  outfits  he  had.  At  the  price  of  a  fascinating 
morning  and  fifty-odd  dollars,  we  parted  from  him,  own- 
ers of  a  silk  tent,  mosquito  and  snake  proof,  which  folded 
into  an  infinitesimal  canvas  bag,  a  tin  lantern,  which 
folded  flat,  a  tin  biscuit  baker  which  collapsed  into  noth- 
ing, a  nest  of  cooking  and  eating  utensils,  which  folded 
and  fitted  into  one  two-gallon  pail,  a  can  opener,  a  hunt- 
ing knife,  doomed  to  be  our  most  cherished  treasure,  a 
flashlight,  six  giant  safety-pins,  and  a  folding  stove.  The 
charm  of  an  article  which  collapses  and  becomes  some- 
thing else  than  it  seems  I  cannot  analyze  nor  resist. 
Others  feel  it  too;  I  know  a  man  who  once  stopped  a 
South  American*revolution  by  stepping  into  the  Plaza  and 
opening  and  shutting  his  opera  hat. 

Only  one  incident  marred  our  satisfaction  with  the 
morning's  work;  we  discovered,  on  saying  farewell  to 
i*  that  we  had  been  calling  him  by  his  first  name  I 


CHAPTER  II 

FROM  NEW  YORK  TO  ANTOINE^S 

THERE  were,  we  found,  three  ways  to  transport  an 
automobile  from  New«York  to  Texas;  to  drive  it 
ourselves,  and  become  mired  in  Southern  "gumbo,"  to 
ship  it  by  rail,  and  become  bankrupt  while  waiting  weeks 
for  delivery,  or,  cheaper  and  altogether  more  satisfac- 
tory, to  send  it  by  freight  steamer  to  Galveston.  By  this 
means  we  avoided  the  need  of  crating  our  lumbering 
vehicle;  we  also  could  calculate  definitely  its  date  of  ar- 
rival, and  by  taking  a  passenger  boat  to  New  Orleans, 
and  going  thence  by  rail,  be  at  the  port  to  meet  it. 

Our  baggage  we  stowed  in  a  peculiarly  shaped  auto 
trunk  containing  five  peculiarly  shaped  suitcases,  trape- 
zoids  all, — not  a  parallelepiped  among  them.  Made  to 
fit  an  earlier  car,  in  its  day  it  had  been  the  laughing  stock 
of  all  the  porters  in  Europe.  Too  bulky  to  be  strapped 
outside,  it  was  to  become  a  mysterious  occupant  of  the 
tonneau,  exciting  much  speculation  and  comment.  It  was 
to  be  the  means  of  our  being  taken  for  Salvation  lassies 
with  a  parlor  organ,  bootleggers,  Spiritualists  with  the 
omnipresent  cabinet,  show-girls  or  lady  shirt-waist  drum- 
mers, according  to  the  imagination  of  the  beholder;  but 
it  never  was  aught  but  a  nuisance.  Whatever  we  needed 
always  reposed  in  the  bottom-most  suitcase,  and  rather 
than  dig  down,  we  did  without.  Next  time,  I  shall  know 
better.  A  three-piece  khaki  suit,  composed  of  breeches, 

7 


8  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

short  skirt  split  front  and  back,  and  many-pocketed  Nor- 
folk coat,  worn  with  knee-high  elk  boots,  does  for  daily 
wear  in  camping,  riding  or  driving.  It  sheds  rain,  heat 
and  cold,  does  not  wrinkle  when  slept  in,  and  only  mel- 
lows with  successive  accumulations  of  dirt.  For  dress 
occasions,  a  dark  jersey  coat  and  skirt,  wool  stockings 
and  low  oxfords  is  magnificence  itself.  A  heavy  and  a 
light  sweater,  two  flannel  and  a  half  dozen  cotton  or  linen 
shirts,  and  sufficient  plain  underwear  suffice  for  a  year's 
knocking  about.  Add  to  this  a  simple  afternoon  frock 
of  non-wrinkling  material,  preferably  black,  and  no  event 
finds  you  unprepared. 

Our  trunk  made  us  trouble  from  the  start.  The  admin- 
istration had  given  us  to  understand  we  might  ship  it  with 
the  car,  but  at  the  last  moment  this  was  prevented  by  a 
constitutional  amendment.  Accordingly,  an  hour  before 
our  boat  left,  we  took  the  trunk  to  the  line  on  which  we 
were  to  travel,  and  shipped  it  as  personal  baggage.  It 
was  only  the  first  of  many  experiences  which  persuaded 
us  to  adopt  the  frontiersman's  motto,  "Pack  light." 

Every  true  yarn  of  adventure  should  begin  with  a  sea 
voyage.  The  wharves  with  their  heaped  cargoes  tying 
together  the  four  ends  of  the  world,  the  hoisting  of  the 
gang-plank,  the  steamer  flirtations,  the  daily  soundings, 
the  eternal  .schools  of  porpoises,  the  menus  with  their 
ensuing  disillusionments,  and  above  all,  the  funny,  funny 
passengers,  each  a  drollery  to  all  the  others, — all  these 
commonplaces  of  voyage  are  invested  by  the  mighty  sea 
with  its  own  importance  and  mystery. 

On  board,  besides  ourselves,  were  some  very  funny 
people,  and  some  merely  funny.  A  swarthy  family  of 
Spaniards  next  us  passed  through  all  the  successive  shades 


FROM  NEW  YORK  TO  ANTOINE'S          9 

of  yellow  and  green,  but  throughout  they  were  gay,  eating 
oranges  and  chanting  pretty  little  Castilian  folk-songs. 
At  table  sat  a  man  wearing  a  black  and  white  striped  shirt, 
of  the  variety  known  as  "boiled,"  a  black  and  white 
striped  collar  of  a  different  pattern,  and  a  bright  blue 
necktie  thickly  studded  with  daisies  and  asterisks.  He 
looked,  otherwise,  like  a  burglar  without  his  jimmy,  espe- 
cially when  we  saw  him  by  moonlight  glowering  progna- 
thously  through  a  porthole.  He  turned  out  to  be  only  a 
playwright  and  journalist,  with  a  specialty  for  handing 
out  misinformation  on  a  different  subject  each  meal. 

The  stout  lady,  the  flirtatious  purser — why  is  he  of  all 
classes  of  men  the  most  amorous? — the  bounder,  the 
bride  and  groom,  the  flappers  of  both  sexes,  the  drummer, 
the  motherly  stewardess  and  the  sardonic  steward  were 
all  present.  And  why  does  the  sight  of  digestive  anguish 
bring  out  the  maternal  in  the  female,  and  only  profanity 
in  the  male?  Our  plump  English  stewardess  cooed  over 
us,  helpless  in  upper  and  lower  berths ;  our  steward  always 
rocked  with  silent  mirth,  and  muttered,  "My  God!" 

Our  own  stout  lady  was  particularly  rare.  She  ap- 
peared coquettishly  the  first  calm  day  off  Florida,  in  a 
pink  gingham  dress,  a  large  black  rosary  draped  promi- 
nently upon  her, — which  did  not  much  heighten  her  re- 
semblance to  a  Mother  Superior,  owing  to  her  wearing  an 
embroidered  Chinese  kimona  and  a  monkey  coat  over  it, 
and  flirting  so  gayly  with  the  boys.  On  the  Galveston 
train  later,  we  heard  her  say  helplessly,  "Porter,  my 
trunk  is  follering  me  to  Gah^jton.  How  shall  I  stop  it?" 
She  could  have  stopped  an  express  van  merely  by  standing 
in  front  of  it,  but  we  did  not  suggest  this  remedy.  The 


io  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

picture  of  a  docile  Saratoga  lumbering  doggedly  at  her 
rear  was  too  much  for  words. 

As  to  the  purser,  we  left  him  severely  alone.  We  did 
not  feel  we  could  flirt  with  him  in  the  style  to  which  he 
had  been  accustomed. 

The  last  night  of  the  voyage,  when  the  clear  bright 
green  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  gave  place  to  the  turbulent 
coffee  color  of  the  Mississippi,  our  stewardess  knocked. 

"On  account  of  the  river,  miss,  we  don't  bathe  to- 
night." It  was  a  small  tragedy  for  us.  Earlier  in  the 
voyage  we  could  not  bear  to  see  the  water  sliding  up  and 
down  in  the  tub, — so  much  else  was  sliding  up  and  down. 
It  was  on  one  of  those  days  that  the  stewardess  informed 
us  that  there  were  "twenty-seven  ladies  sick  on  this  deck, 
to  say  nothing  of  twenty-four  below,"  and  asked  us  how 
we  would  like  a  little  piece  of  bacon.  We  firmly  refused 
the  bacon,  but  the  Gilbertian  lilt  of  her  remark  inspired 
us  to  composing  a  ballad  with  the  refrain,  "Twenty- 
seven  sea-sick  ladies  we." 

The  river  which  deprived  us  of  our  baths  presented 
at  five  next  morning  a  bleak  and  sluggish  appearance.  I 
missed  Simon  Legree  and  the  niggers  singing  plantation 
melodies,  but  it  may  have  been  too  early  in  the  day.  Most 
picturesque,  busy,  low-lying  river  it  was,  nevertheless, 
banked  with  shipyards,  newly  built  wharves,  coaling  sta- 
tions, elevators,  steamship  docks — evidences  to  a  provin- 
cial Northerner  that  the  South,  wakened  perhaps  by  the 
Great  War,  has  waited  for  none,  but  has  forged  ahead 
bent  on  her  own  development,  achieving  her  independence 
— this  time  an  economic  independence.  To  the  insular 
Manhattanite,  who  thinks  of  New  York  as  the  Eastern 
gate  of  this  country,  and  San  Francisco  as  the  Western, 


FROM  NEW  YORK  TO  ANTOINE'S         n 

the  self-sufficiency,  the  bustle  and  the  cosmopolitanism 
of  the  Mississippi's  delta  land,  even  seen  through  a  six 
A.M.  drizzle,  gives  a  surprising  jolt. 

Six  months  later  we  were  to  cross  the  Mississippi  near 
the  headwaters  not  many  miles  from  Canada.  More 
lovely,  there  at  the  North,  its  broad,  clear  placid  waters 
shadowed  by  green  forests  and  high  bluffs,  it  invites  for  a 
voyage  of  discovery. 

On  both  banks  of  the  river,  whose  forgotten  raft  and 
steamboat  life  Mark  Twain  made  famous,  are  now  being 
built  concrete  boulevards,  designed  to  bisect  the  country 
from  Canada  to  the  Gulf.  Huck  Finns  of  the  near 
future  will  be  able  to  explore  this  great  artery  through 
what  is  now  perhaps  the  least  known  and  least  accessible 
region  of  the  country. 

New  Orleans,  those  who  knew  it  twenty  or  forty  years 
ago  will  tell  you,  has  become  modern  and  ugly,  has  lost 
its  atmosphere.  Drive  through  the  newer  and  more  pre- 
tentious outskirts,  and  you  will  believe  all  you  are  told. 
You  will  see  the  usual  Southwestern  broad  boulevard, 
pointed  with  staccato  palmettos,  but  otherwise  arid  of 
verdure,  bordered  with  large,  hideous  mansions  which 
completely  overpower  an  occasional  gem  of  low-veran- 
dahed  loveliness,  relic  of  happier  days.  For  such  gran- 
deur the  driver  of  our  jitney, — undoubtedly  the  one  used 
by  Gen.  Jackson  during  his  defence  of  the  city, — had  an 
infallible  instinct.  I  don't  think  he  missed  one  atrocity 
during  the  whole  morning's  drive.  Yet  we  passed  one 
quite  charming  "colored"  dwelling, — a  low  rambling  cot- 
tage covered  with  vines,  proudly  made  of  glittering, 
silvery  tin  I 

But  in  the  old  French  or  Creole  quarters  you  find  all 


12  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

the  storied  charm  of  the  city  intact, — a  bit  of  Italy,  of 
Old  Spain,  of  the  milder  and  sunnier  parts  of  France, 
jumbled  together  with  the  romance  of  the  West  Indies. 
In  the  cobbled  narrow  pavements,  down  which  mule  teams 
still  clatter  more  often  than  motors,  the  mellow  old 
houses,  with  iron  balconies  beautifully  wrought,  broad 
verandahs,  pink,  green  or  orange  plastered  walls,  peeling 
to  show  the  red  brick  underneath, — shady  courtyards, 
high-walled  with  fountains  and  stone  Cupids,  glimpsed 
through  low  arched  doorways,  markets  like  those  of 
Cannes  and  Avignon,  piled  with  luscious  fruits,  crawfish, 
crates  of  live  hens,  strings  of  onions,  and  barrels  of  huge 
oysters, — oh,  the  oysters  of  New  Orleans, — here  lies  the 
fascination  of  the  town. 

Set  down  close  to  the  wharves  is  this  jumble  of  old 
streets,  so  close  that  the  funnels  of  docked  tramps  mingle 
with  the  shop  chimneys.  From  the  wharves  drift  smells 
of  the  sea  and  sea-commerce,  to  join  the  smells  of  the  old 
town.  It  is  a  subtle  blend  of  peanuts,  coffee,  cooked  food, 
garlic,  poultry, — a  raw,  pungent,  bracing  odor,  inclining 
one  to  thoughts  of  eating.  And  just  around  the  corner  is 
Antoine's. 

Eating?  There  should  be  a  word  coined  to  distinguish 
ordinary  eating  from  eating  at  Antoine's.  The  building 
is  modest  and  the  lettering  plain,  as  befits  the  dignity  of 
the  place.  The  interior,  plainly  finished  and  lined  with 
mirrors,  resembles  any  one  of  five  hundred  un-noteworthy 
restaurants  where  business  New  York  eats  to  get  filled. 
There  the  resemblance  stops.  A  sparkle,  restrained  and 
sober  withal,  rests  on  the  mirrors,  the  glasses  and  the 
silver.  The  floors  and  woodwork  have  a  well  scrubbed 
look.  The  linen  is  carefully  looked  after,  the  china  busi- 


FROM  NEW  YORK  TO  ANTOINE'S         13 

ness-like ;  everything  decent,  adequate,  spotless, — nothing 
to  catch  the  eye.  It  is  not  visual  aestheticism  which  lures 
us  here,  or  causes  the  millionaire  Manhattanite  to  order 
his  private  car  to  take  him  to  Antoine's  for  one  hour  of 
bliss.  Antoine  is  an  interior  decorator  of  subtler  but 
more  potent  distinction.  And  I  would  go  even  farther 
than  that  New  York  multi-millionaire  whose  name  spells 
Aladdin  to  Americans ;  for  such  a  meal  as  Antoine  served 
us  that  morning,  I  would  travel  the  same  distance  in  one 
of  those  wife-killing  contrivances  which  are  the  bane  of 
every  self-respecting  motorist. 

The  waiters  at  Antoine's  are  not  hit-or-miss  riff-raff 
sent  up  by  a  waiters'  employment  bureau.  They  are 
grandfatherly  courtiers  who  make  you  feel  that  the  re- 
sponsibility for  your  digestion  lies  in  their  hands,  and  for 
the  good  name  of  the  house  in  yours.  Old  New  Orleans 
knows  them  by  name,  and  recognizes  the  special  dignity 
of  their  priesthood,  with  the  air  of  saluting  equals.  Their 
lifework  is  your  pleasure, — the  procuring  of  your  inner 
contentment.  You  could  trust  your  family's  honor  to 
them,  or  the  ordering  of  your  meal.  Only  at  Antoine's 
and  in  the  pages  of  Leonard  Merrick  does  one  find  such 
servitors. 

We  accepted  our  Joseph's  suggestion  that  we  allow 
him  to  bring  us  some  of  the  specialties  of  the  house.  It 
was  a  wise  decision, — from  the  prelude  of  oysters 
Rockefeller, — seared  in  a  hot  oven  with  a  sauce  of  chives, 
butter  and  crumbs, — to  the  benediction  of  cafe  brulot. 
Between  came  a  marvel  of  a  fish,  covered  with  Creole 
sauce,  a  sublimated  chicken  a  la  King,  a  salad  and  a 
sweet,  all  nicely  proportioned  to  each  other,  but  their 
memory  was  crowned  by  the  cafe  brulot.  In  came  Joseph, 


i4  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

like  all  three  Kings  of  Egypt,  bearing  a  tall  silver  dish 
on  a  silver  platter.  The  platter  contained  blazing  brandy, 
the  dish  orange  peel,  lemon  peel,  cloves,  cinnamon  stick, 
four  lumps  of  sugar,  and  two  spoonfuls  of  brandy. 
Joseph  stirred  them  into  a  melted  nectar,  then  with  a 
long  silver  ladle  and  the  manner  of  a  vestal  virgin,  swept 
the  blazing  brandy  into  the  mixture  above,  and  stood  like 
a  benevolent  demon  over  the  flame.  An  underling 
brought  a  pot  of  black  coffee,  which  was  added  little  by 
little  to  the  fiery  mixture,  and  stirred.  Finally  it  was 
ladled  into  two  small  glasses.  We  swam  in  Swinburnian 
bliss.  We  paid  our  bill,  and  departed  to  a  new  New 
Orleans,  where  the  secondhand  stores  were  filled  with 
genuine,  priceless  antiques,  the  pavings  easy  on  our  weary 
feet,  the  skies,  as  the  meteorologist  in  the  popular  song 
observed,  raining  violets  and  daffodils.  Mr.  Volstead 
never  tasted  cafe  brulot. 


CHAPTER  III 

A   LONG  WAYS   FROM   HOME 

TWO  days  of  downpour  greeted  us  at  Galveston 
while  we  waited  for  our  car  to  arrive.  It  was  the 
climax  of  three  months  of  rain  which  had  followed  three 
drouthy  years.  The  storm  swept  waves  and  spray  over 
the  breakwater  toward  the  frame  town  which  has  sprung 
up  hopefully  after  twice  being  devoured  by  the  sea  mon- 
ster. A  city  of  khaki  tents  dripped  mournfully  under  the 
drenching;  wet  sentries  paced  the  coast-line,  and  looked 
suspiciously  at  two  ladies — all  women  are  ladies  in  Texas 
— who  cared  to  fight  their  way  along  the  sea-wall  against 
such  a  gale.  Toby  and  I  were  bored,  when  we  were  not 
eating  Galveston's  oysters. 

The  city,  pleasant  enough  under  the  sun,  had  its  usual 
allotment  of  boulevards,  bronze  monuments,  drug  stores, 
bungalows  of  the  modest  and  mansions  of  the  local  pluto- 
crats, but  it  had  not  the  atmosphere  of  New  Orleans. 
We  were  soon  to  learn  that  regardless  of  size,  beauty  or 
history,  some  towns  have  personality,  others  have  about 
as  much  personality  as  a  reception  room  in  a  Methodist 
dormitory. 

Next  day,  news  came  that  our  boat  had  docked,  and 
telephoning  revealed  that  the  car  was  safely  landed. 
There  are  joys  to  telephoning  in  the  South.  Central  is 
courteous  and  eager  to  please,  and  the  voices  of  stran- 
gers with  whom  one  does  curt  business  at  home  become 

15 


1 6  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

here  so  soft  and  winning  that  old  friendships  are  imme- 
diately cemented,  repartee  indulged  in,  and  the  receiver 
hung  up  with  a  feeling  of  regret.  That  is  the  kind  of 
voice  the  agent  for  the  Mallory  Line  had.  To  be  sure, 
it  took  us  a  day  to  get  the  car  from  the  dock  to  the  street, 
when  it  would  have  taken  half  an  hour  at  home,  but  it 
was  a  day  devoted  to  the  finer  shades  of  intercourse  and 
good  fellowship.  I  reached  the  dock  half  an  hour  before 
lunch  time. 

"Yes'm,  the  office  is  open,  but  I  reckon  yo'  won't  find 
any  hands  to  move  yo'  car,"  was  the  accurate  prediction 
of  the  official  to  whom  I  applied.  "Pretty  nearly  lunch 
time,  yo'  know." 

So  I  waited,  filling  in  time  by  answering  the  guarded 
questions  the  watchman  put  to  me.  I  was  almost  as  fasci- 
nating an  object  of  attention  to  him  as  his  Bull  Durham, 
though  I  must  admit  that  when  there  was  a  conflict 
between  us,  I  never  won,  except  once,  when  he  asked 
where  the  car  and  I  came  from. 

"Massachusetts?"     Bull  Durham  lost. 

A  great  idea  struggled  for  expression.  I  could  see  him 
searching  for  the  right,  the  inevitable  word.  I  could  see 
it  born,  as  triumph  and  amusement  played  over  his  fea- 
tures. Then  caution — should  he  spring  it  all  at  once  or 
save  it  for  a  climax?  Nonchalantly,  as  if  such  epigrams 
were  likely  to  occur  to  him  any  time,  he  got  it  off. 

"You're  a  long  ways  from  home,  ain't  yo'?" 

With  the  air  of  saying  something  equally  witty,  I 
replied,  "I  surely  am." 

Like  "When  did  you  stop  beating  your  wife,"  his 
question  was  one  of  those  which  has  all  the  repartee  its 
own  way.  For  six  months,  we  were  to  hear  it  several 


A  LONG  WAYS  FROM  HOME  17 

times  daily,  but  it  always  came  as  a  shock,  and  as  if 
hypnotized,  we  were  never  to  alter  our  response.  And 
it  was  so  true !  We  were  a  long  ways  from  home,  fur- 
ther than  we  then  realized.  At  times  we  seemed  so  long 
that  we  wondered  if  we  should  ever  see  home  again.  But 
we  were  never  too  far  to  meet  some  man,  wittier  than  his 
fellows,  who  defined  our  location  accurately. 

After  his  diagnosis  and  my  acceptance  of  it,  further 
conversation  became  anticlimactic.  The  "hands'*  were 
still  absent  at  lunch,  so  I  followed  their  example,  and 
returning  at  two,  found  them  still  at  lunch.  But  at  last 
the  agent  drifted  in,  and  three  or  four  interested  and 
willing  colored  boys.  Everybody  was  pleasant,  nobody 
was  hurried,  we  exchanged  courtesies,  and  signed  papers, 
and  after  we  really  got  down  to  business,  in  a  surprisingly 
few  minutes  the  car  was  rolled  across  the  street  by  five- 
man  power,  while  I  lolled  behind  the  steering  wheel  like 
Cleopatra  in  her  galley.  At  the  doorway  the  agent 
halted  me. 

"Massachusetts  car?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  I.     Were  there  to  be  complications? 

In  a  flash  he  countered. 

"Yo*  surely  are  a  long  ways  from  home." 

I  laughed  heartily,  and  with  rapier  speed  replied, 

"I  surely  am." 

They  told  us  the  road  from  Galveston  to  Houston 
(Hewston)  was  good — none  better. 

"Good  shell  road  all  the  way.  You'll  make  time  on 
that  road."  This  is  the  distinction  between  a  Southerner 
and  a  Westerner.  When  the  former  tells  you  a  road  is 
good,  he  means  that  it  once  was  good.  When  a  West- 


1 8  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

erner  tells  you  the  same  thing,  he  means  that  it  is  going 
to  be  good  at  some  happy  future  date.  In  Texas  the 
West  and  South  meet. 

We  crossed  the  three-mile  causeway  which  Galveston 
built  at  an  expense  of  two  million  dollars,  to  connect 
her  island  town  with  her  mainland.  On  all  sides  of  us 
flatness  like  the  flatness  of  the  sea  stretched  to  the  hori- 
zon, and  but  for  the  horizon  would  have  continued  still 
further.  The  air  was  balmy  as  springtime  in  Italy. 
Meadow  larks  perched  fat  and  puffy  on  fenceposts,  drip- 
ping abrupt  melodies  which  began  and  ended  nowhere. 
The  sky,  washed  with  weeks  of  rain,  had  been  dipped  in 
blueing  and  hung  over  the  earth  to  dry.  After  enduring 
gray  northern  skies,  we  were  intoxicated  with  happi- 
ness. 

The  happier  I  am,  the  faster  I  drive.  The  road  of 
hard  oyster  shell  we  knew  was  good.  They  had  told  us 
we  could  make  time  on  it,  in  so  many  words.  Forty- 
eight  miles  an  hour  is  not  technically  fast,  but  seems  fast 
when  you  suddenly  descend  into  a  hard-edged  hole  a  foot 
and  a  half  deep. 

When  we  had  separated  ourselves  from  our  baggage, 
we  examined  the  springs.  By  a  miracle  they  were  intact. 
In  first  gear,  the  car  took  a  standing  jump,  and  emerged 
from  the  hole.  For  one  of  her  staid  matronly  build,  she 
did  very  well  at  her  first  attempt.  Later  she  learned  to 
leap  boulders,  and  skip  lightly  from  precipice  to  preci- 
pice and  if  we  could  have  kept  her  in  training  six  months 
longer,  she  could  have  walked  out  halfway  on  a  tight- 
rope, turned  around  and  got  back  safely  to  land. 

The  holes  increased  rapidly  until  there  was  no  spot  in 
the  road  free  from  them.  Our  course  resembled  an 


A  LONG  WAYS  FROM  HOME  19 

earthworm's.  Except  for  the  holes,  the  road  was  all 
its  sympathizers  claimed  for  it.  We  maneuvered  two 
partly  washed  away  bridges,  and  came  to  a  halt. 

Airplanes  were  soaring  above  us  in  every  direction. 
We  were  passing  Ellington  Field.  But  the  immediate 
cause  of  our  halt  was  two  soldiers,  who  begged  a  lift  to 
Houston.  We  were  glad  to  oblige  them,  but  after  a  hope- 
less glance  at  the  tonneau  piled  high  with  baggage,  they 
decided  to  ride  on  the  running  board.  If  the  doughboy 
on  the  left  had  only  been  the  doughboy  on  the  right  run- 
ning board,  this  chapter  would  have  been  two  days 
shorter.  It  was  Friday,  and  we  had  thirteen  miles  to  go, 
and  Friday  and  thirteen  make  a  bad  combination. 

Toby  chatted  with  her  soldier  and  I  with  mine,  who 
was  a  mechanician  at  the  flying  field.  It  was  a  disappoint- 
ment not  to  have  him  an  aviator,  though  he  admitted  a 
mechanician's  was  a  far  weightier  responsibility.  Before 
the  war,  he  had  been  a  professional  racer,  had  come  in 
second  in  a  championship  race  between  San  Francisco 
and  Los  Angeles,  and  gave  such  good  reasons  why  he 
hadn't  come  in  first  that  he  seemed  to  have  taken  a  mean 
advantage  of  the  champion. 

"Sixty-three  miles  is  about  as  fast  as  I've  ever  driven," 
I  said  in  an  off-hand  way. 

"Sixty-three?  That's  not  fast.  When  you  get  going 
ninety-five  to  a  hundred,  that's  something  like  driving." 

"This  car,"  I  explained,  "won't  make  more  than  fifty. 
At  fifty  she  vibrates  till  she  rocks  from  side  to  side." 

He  looked  at  the  wheel  hungrily.  "Huh!  I  bet  I 
could  bring  her  up  to  seventy-five." 

Stung,  I  put  my  foot  on  the  gas,  and  the  speedometer 
needle  swung  to  the  right.  As  we  merged  with  the 


20  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

traffic  of  Houston,  shell-holes  were  left  behind  us,  and 
passing  cars  were  taking  advantage  of  a  perfect  concrete 
road.  A  Hudson  with  a  Texas  number  passed  us  with  a 
too  insistent  horn,  the  driver  smiled  scornfully  and  looked 
back,  and  his  three  children  leaned  out  from  the  back 
to  grin.  And  they  were  only  going  a  miserable  thirty. 
The  near-champion  looked  impotently  at  the  steering 
wheel,  and  in  agonized  tones  commanded,  "Step  on  it!" 

The  Hudson  showed  signs  of  fight,  and  lured  us 
through  the  traffic  at  a  lively  pace.  My  companion  on 
the  running  board  was  dying  of  mortification.  I  knew 
how  he  itched  to  seize  the  wheel,  and  for  his  sake  I  re- 
doubled my  efforts.  In  a  moment  the  impudent  Hudson 
children  ceased  to  leer  from  the  back  of  their  car,  and 
were  pretending  to  admire  the  scenery  on  the  other  side. 
Then  suddenly  the  Hudson  lost  all  interest  in  the  race. 

"Turn  down  the  side  street,"  yelled  my  passenger, 
frantically.  I  tried  to  turn,  wondering,  but  the  carbure- 
tor sputtered  and  died. 

I  will  say  that  it  is  almost  a  pleasure  to  be  arrested  in 
Texas.  Two  merry  motor-cops  smiled  at  us  winsomely. 
There  was  sympathy,  understanding  and  good  fellow- 
ship in  their  manner, — no  malice,  yet  firmness  withal, 
which  is  the  way  I  prefer  to  be  handled  by  the  police. 
As  officers  they  had  to  do  their  duty.  As  gentlemen,  they 
regretted  it. 

Toby,  chatting  about  aviation  with  the  man  on  her  run- 
ning-board, was  completely  taken  by  surprise  to  hear 
uAh'm  sahry,  lady,  but  we'll  jest  have  to  ask  you-all 
to  come  along  with  us." 

What  an  embarrassing  position  for  our  passengers! 
They  had  accepted  our  hospitality,  egged  us  on  to  un- 


A  LONG  WAYS  FROM  HOME  21 

lawful  speed,  and  landed  us  in  the  court-house, — with 
pay-day  weeks  behind.  Their  chagrin  deepened  as  their 
efforts  to  free  us  unlawfully  went  for  naught.  Our  in- 
dulgent captors  could  not  have  regretted  it  more  if  we 
had  been  their  own  sisters,  but  they  made  it  clear  we  must 
follow  them. 

"You  go  ahead,  and  I'll  show  her  the  way,"  sug- 
gested my  tempter.  That  he  had  traveled  the  same  road 
many,  many  times  became  evident  to  us.  In  fact,  he  con- 
fided that  he  had  been  arrested  in  every  state  in  the 
Union,  and  his  face  was  so  well  known  in  the  Houston 
court  that  the  judge  had  wearied  of  fining  him,  and  now 
merely  let  him  off  with  a  rebuke.  So  hoping  our  faces 
would  have  the  same  effect  on  the  judge,  we  trustingly 
followed  his  directions  into  town,  our  khaki-clad  friends 
leading. 

"Turn  off  to  the  right  here,"  said  my  guide.    I  turned, 
and  in  a  flash,  the  motor-cycles  wheeled  back  to  us. 

Smiling  as  ever,  our  captors  shook  their  heads  warn- 
ingly. 

"Now,  lady,  none  of  that!     You  follow  right  after 


us." 


Profusely  my  guide  protested  he  had  merely  medi- 
tated a  short  cut  to  the  station  house.  Elaborately  he 
explained  the  route  he  had  intended  to  take.  Poor  chap, 
D'Artagnan  himself  could  not  have  schemed  more  nimbly 
to  rescue  a  lady  from  the  Bastille.  I  saw  how  his  mad- 
cap mind  had  visioned  the  quiet  turn  down  the  side  street, 
the  doubling  on  our  tracks,  the  lightning  change  of  him- 
self into  the  driver's  seat,  a  gray  Cadillac  streaking  ninety 
miles  an  hour  past  the  scattering  populace  of  Houston, 


22  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

then  breathless  miles  on  into  the  safety  of  the  plains — 
the  ladies  rescued,  himself  a  hero 

Instead,  we  tamely  drew  up  before  a  little  brick  sta- 
tion-house two  blocks  beyond.  He  did  all  he  could,  even 
offering  to  appear  in  court  the  next  day  and  plead  for  us, 
but  from  what  we  now  knew  of  his  local  record,  it  seemed 
wiser  to  meet  the  judge  on  our  own  merits. 

Our  arrival  caused  a  sensation.  The  police  circles  of 
Houston  evidently  did  not  every  day  see  a  Massachusetts 
car  piled  high  with  baggage  driven  by  two  women, 
flanked  by  a  soldier  on  each  running  board.  When  we 
entered  the  sheriff's  office,  every  man  in  the  room  turned 
his  back  for  a  moment  and  shook  with  mirth.  They  led 
me  to  a  wicket  window  with  Toby  staunchly  behind.  The 
sheriff,  in  shirt  sleeves  and  suspenders,  amiably  pushed  a 
bag  of  Bull  Durham  toward  me.  I  started  back  at  this 
unusual  method  of  exchanging  formalities.  A  policeman, 
also  in  shirt  sleeves  and  suspenders,  a  twinkle  concealed 
in  his  sweet  Southern  drawl,  explained, 

uThe  lady  thawt  yo'  meant  them  fixin's  for  her, 
Charley,  instead  of  fo'  that  mean  speed-catcher." 

The  sheriff  took  my  name  and  address. 

"Massachusetts?"  he  exclaimed.  Then,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, he  shot  back  at  me.  "Yo're  a  lawng  ways  from 
homer 

"I  wish  I  were  longer,"  I  said. 

"Never  mind,  lady,"  he  said,  soothingly  and  caress- 
ingly. "Yo'  give  me  twenty  dollars  now,  and  tell  the 
jedge  your  story  tomorrow,  an'  seein'  as  how  you're  a 
stranger  and  a  lady,  he'll  give  it  all  back  to  you." 

On  that  understanding,  I  paid  him  twenty  dollars. 

At  three  next  afternoon,  Toby  and  I  sought  the  court- 


A  LONG  WAYS  FROM  HOME  23 

house  to  get  our  twenty  dollars  back,  as  agreed.  The 
ante-room  was  filled  with  smoke  from  a  group  of  Hous- 
tonians  whose  lurking  smiles  seemed  to  promise  indul- 
gence. The  judge  was  old  and  impassive,  filmed  with  an 
absent-mindedness  hard  to  penetrate.  Yet  he,  too,  had  a 
lurking  grin  which  he  bit  off  when  he  spoke. 

"Yo'  are  charged  with  exceeding  the  speed  limit  at 
a  rate  of  fo'ty-five  miles  an  hour." 

"Your  Honor,  this  was  my  first  day  in  the  State,  and 
I  hadn't  learned  your  traffic  laws." 

He  looked  up  over  his  spectacles.  "Yo're  from  Mass- 
achusetts?" 

"Yes,  sir!" 

Toby  and  I  waited  in  suspense.  We  saw  a  faint  spark 
light  the  cold,  filmed  blue  eye,  spread  to  the  corner  of  his 
grim  mouth,  while  a  look  of  benevolent  anticipation 
rippled  over  his  set  countenance.  It  was  coming !  I  got 
ready  to  say  with  a  spontaneous  laugh  "We  surely  are'9 

And  then  he  bit  it  off ! 

"Yo'  know  speeding  is  a  very  serious  offense " 

"I  wouldn't  have  done  it  for  worlds,  your  Honor,  if  I 
hadn't  seen  all  the  Texas  cars  going  quite  fast,  so  I 
thought  you  wouldn't  mind  if  I  did  the  same.  I  only 
arrived  yesterday  from  Massachusetts." 

"Thet's  so.     Yo're  from  Massachusetts?" 

We  waited  hopefully.     But  again  he  bit  it  off. 

"It's  a  mighty  serious  offense.  But,  seein'  as  yo're  a 
stranger  and  a  lady  at  that " 

His  voice  became  indulgently  reassuring.  We  felt 
we  had  done  well  to  wait  over  a  day,  and  trust  to  South- 
ern chivalry. 


24  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

"Considering  everything,  I'll  be  easy  on  you.  Twenty 
dollars/' 

His  tone  was  so  fatherly  that  I  knew  only  gratitude 
for  being  saved  from  two  months  in  a  Texas  dungeon. 

"Thank  you,  your  Honor,"  I  faltered. 

Outside,  Toby  looked  at  me  in  scorn. 

"What  did  you  thank  him  for?"  she  asked. 

Whether  it  be  contempt  of  court  or  no,  I  wish  to  state 
that  subsequent  inquiry  among  the  hairdressers,  hotel 
clerks,  and  garage  men  of  Houston,  revealed  that  a 
fine  of  such  magnitude  had  never  been  imposed  in  the 
annals  of  the  town.  The  usual  sentence  was  a  rebuke 
for  first  offenses,  two  dollars  for  the  second  and  so  on. 
The  judge  was  right.  I  was  a  stranger 

But  what  could  you  expect  from  a  soul  of  granite  who 
could  resist  such  a  mellowing,  opportune,  side-splitting 
bon  mot? — could  swallow  it  unsaid? 

I  hope  it  choked  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

CHIVALRY  VS.  GUMBO 

A  GUIDE,  who  at  the  age  of  twelve  had  in  disgust 
left  his  native  state,  once  epitomized  it  to  me. 

"Texas  is  a  hell  of  a  state.  Chock  full  of  socialists, 
horse-thieves  and  Baptists." 

Socialists  and  horse-thieves  we  did  .not  encounter;  it 
must  have  been  the  Baptists,  then,  who  were  responsible 
for  the  law  putting  citizens  who  purchase  gasoline  on  Sun- 
day in  the  criminal  class.  Unluckily  the  easy-going  ga- 
rage man  who  obligingly  gave  us  all  other  possible  in- 
formation neglected  to  tell  us  of  this  restriction  on  Satur- 
day night.  Accordingly,  when  we  started  on  Sunday 
morning,  we  had  only  five  gallons  and  a  hundred  odd 
miles  to  go.  We  had  no  desire  to  meet  Houston's  ju- 
diciary again. 

A  little  group  of  advisers  gathered  to  discuss  our  prob- 
lem. The  road  our  New  York  optimist  had  routed  for  us 
as  "splendid  going  all  the  way"  was  a  sea  of  mud.  Four 
mule  teams  could  not  pull  us  out,  we  were  told.  Three 
months  of  steady  rain  had  reduced  the  State  of  Texas 
to  a  state  of  "gumbo."  Each  man  had  a  tale  of  en- 
counter and  defeat  for  each  road  suggested.  Each  de- 
clared the  alternatives  suggested  by  the  others  impossi- 
ble. But,  at  last,  came  one  who  had  "got  through"  by 
the  Sugarland  road  the  day  before.  He  voiced  the  defi- 
nition of  a  good  road  in  Texas,  a  definition  which  we 
frequently  encountered  afterward. 

25 


26  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

"The  road's  all  right,  ef  yo'  don't  boag,  otherwise 
you'll  find  it  kinder  rough." 

With  this  dubious  encouragement  we  started,  at  nine 
in  the  morning,  hoping  the  Baptists  further  out  in  the 
country  would  grow  lenient  in  the  matter  of  gasoline, 
as  the  square  of  their  distance  from  Houston. 

It  was  a  heavenly  day,  the  sun  hot  and  the  vibrant  blue 
sky  belying  the  sodden  fields  and  brimming  ditches.  The 
country,  brown  and  faintly  rolling,  under  the  warmth 
of  the  Southern  springtime  was  reminiscent  of  the  Roman 
Campagna.  Song  sparrows  filled  the  air  with  abrupt 
showers  of  music,  and  now  and  then  a  bald  and  black- 
winged  buzzard  thudded  down  into  a  nearby  field.  For 
miles  on  both  sides  of  the  road  we  saw  only  black  soil 
soaked  and  muddy,  with  rivers  for  furrows,  and  only  a 
few  brown  stalks  standing  from  last  year's  cotton  or  rice 
crop.  The  eternal  flatness  of  the  country  suggested  a 
reason  for  the  astounding  height  of  the  loose-jointed 
Texans  we  had  seen;  they  had  to  be  tall  to  make  any 
impression  on  the  landscape.  It  accounted,  too,  for  their 
mild,  easy-going,  unhurried  and  unhurriable  ways.  What 
is  the  use  of  haste,  when  as  much  landscape  as  ever  still 
stretches  out  before  one? 

Before  we  reached  Sugarland,  a  lonesome  group  of 
houses  on  what  had  once  been  a  huge  sugar  plantation, 
our  misgivings  began.  Mud  in  Texas  has  a  different 
meaning  from  mud  in  Massachusetts;  it  means  gumbo, 
morasses,  Sargasso  Seas,  broken  axles,  abandoned  cars. 
From  the  reiteration  of  the  words,  "Yo*  may  git  through, 
but  I  think  yo'll  boag"  we  began  to  realize  that  it  was 
easier  to  get  into  Texas,  even  through  the  eye  of  the 
police  court,  than  to  get  out  of  it. 


CHIVALRY  VS.  GUMBO  27 

At  Sugarland  we  took  on  illicit  gasoline  and  a  pas- 
senger. He  was  bound  for  a  barbecue,  but  volunteered  to 
steer  us  through  a  particularly  bad  spot  a  mile  further. 
We  roused  his  gloom  by  a  reference  to  the  Blue  Laws  of 
Texas. 

"Ef  this  legislatin'  keeps  on,"  he  said,  "a  man'll  have 
to  git  a  permit  to  live  with  his  wife.  Texas  aint  what  it 
used  to  be.  This  yere's  a  dry,  non-gambling  county,  but 
this  yere  town's  the  best  town  in  the  state." 

We  followed  his  gesture  wonderingly  toward  the 
lonely  cluster  of  houses,  a  warehouse,  a  store,  an  ex- 
saloon  with  the  sign  badly  painted  out,  and  "refresh- 
ments" painted  in,  and  the  usual  group  of  busy  loafers 
at  the  store. 

"Yes  ma'am.  It's  a  good  town.  Twice  a  year  on 
Gawge  Washin'ton's  birthday  and  the  Fo'th  we  hold  a 
barbecue  an'  everyone  in  the  county  comes.  I'm  right 
sorry  I  cain't  take  yo'  ladies  along;  I'm  sure  I  could 
show  yo'  a  good  time.  Whiskey  flows  like  water,  we 
roast  a  dozen  oxen,  and  sometimes  as  much  as  fifteen 
thousand  dollars  will  change  hands  at  one  crap  game. 
We  whoop  it  up  for  a  week,  and  then  we  settle  down,  and 
mind  the  law  again." 

Under  the  guidance  of  our  kindly  passenger,  we 
learned  a  new  technique  in  driving.  In  first  gear,  avoid- 
ing the  deceptively  smooth  but  slimy  roadside,  we  made 
for  the  deepest  ruts,  racing  the  engine  till  it  left  a  trail 
of  thick  white  smoke  behind,  clinging  to  the  steering 
wheel,  while  the  heavy  car  rocked  and  creaked  in  the 
tyrannical  grip  of  the  ruts  like  a  ship  in  the  trough  of 
the  waves.  Without  our  friend,  we  never  should  have 
got  through.  He  walked  ahead,  selected  the  impassable 


28  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

places  from  those  which  merely  looked  so,  and  beamed, 
when  rocked  and  bruised  from  the  wheel  I  steered  the 
good  car  to  comparatively  dry  land.  A  little  further, 
where  the  barbecue  began,  he  bade  us  a  regretful  fare- 
well, and  requested  us  to  look  him  up  when  next  we 
came  to  Texas. 

"I  sure  would  'a  liked  to  have  went  to  Boston,"  he 
added,  "but  I  aint  sure  ef  I  had  'a  went  theah,  whetheh  I 
could  'a  understood  their  brogue." 

Since  Houston  we  had  learned  the  full  meaning  of 
Texas  optimism.  "Roads  are  splendid,  ma'am.  I  think 
you'll  git  through,"  we  mentally  labeled  as  "probably 
passable."  But  when  we  heard,  in  the  same  soft,  gentle 
monotone,  "Pretty  poor  roads,  ma'am;  I  think  yo'll 
boag,"  we  knew  we  should  "boag" — bog  to  the  hubs  in 
a  plaster  of  Paris  cast.  At  Richmond,  where  they  told 
us  that  the  roads  which  Houston  had  described  as  "splen- 
did" were  quite  impassable,  we  sadly  learned  that  to  a 
Texan,  any  road  twenty  miles  away  is  a  "splendid  road," 
ten  miles  away  is  "pretty  fair,"  but  at  five,  "you'll  sure 
boag." 

Again  we  faced  the  probability  of  progressing  only  a 
few  miles  further  on  Texas  soil,  but  the  town  flocked  to 
our  aid,  told  us  of  two  alternate  roads,  and  promptly 
split  into  two  factions,  each  claiming  we  should  "boag" 
if  we  took  the  road  advised  by  the  other.  A  friendly 
soda  clerk  gained  our  confidence  by  asserting  he  never 
advised  any  road  he  had  not  traveled  personally.  He 
was  such  a  unique  change  from  the  rest  of  Texas  that 
we  took  his  advice  and  the  East  Bernard  road  to  Eagle 
Lake.  It  was  only  the  fourth  change  from  our  original 
route  planned  when  overlooking  the  asphalt  of  New 


CHIVALRY  VS.  GUMBO  29 

York,  and  each  detour  decreased  our  chances  of  getting 
back  to  the  highways.  But  there  was  no  alternative.  The 
soda  clerk  as  he  served  us  diluted  ginger  ale,  reassured 
us.  "It's  a  pretty  good  road,  and  ef  yo'  don't  boag,  I 
think  yo'll  git  through." 

We  bogged.  We  came,  quite  suddenly  to  a  tell-tale 
stretch  of  black,  spotting  the  red-brown  road,  and  knew 
we  were  in  for  it.  At  each  foot,  we  wondered  if  we 
should  bog  in  the  next.  Eliza  must  have  felt  the  same 
way,  crossing  the  ice,  especially  when  a  cake  slipped  from 
under  her.  As  directed,  I  kept  to  the  ruts.  Sometimes 
they  expanded  to  a  three-foot  hole,  into  which  the  car 
descended  with  a  heart-rending  thump.  Once  in  a  rut, 
it  was  impossible  to  get  out.  The  mud,  of  the  consis- 
tency of  modeling  clay,  would  have  made  the  fortune  of 
a  dealer  in  art  supplies.  At  last,  a  wrong  choice  of  ruts 
pulled  us  into  this  stiff  mass  to  our  hubs,  almost  wrenching 
the  differential  from  the  car,  and  we  found  ourselves 
stopping.  As  soon  as  we  stopped,  we  were  done  for.  We 
sank  deeper  and  deeper. 

We  got  out,  sinking  ourselves  halfway  to  the  knees 
in  gumbo.  We  were  on  a  lonely  road  in  an  absolutely 
flat  country,  with  not  a  house  on  the  horizon.  We  had  no 
ropes,  and  no  shovel.  We  looked  at  the  poor  car,  foun- 
dered to  her  knees  in  sculptor's  clay,  and  wondered  how 
many  dismal  days  we  must  wait  before  the  morass  dried. 

And  then  came  the  first  manifestation  of  a  peculiar 
luck  which  followed  us  on  our  entire  trip.  Never  saving 
us  from  catastrophe,  it  rescued  us  in  the  most  unlikely 
fashion,  soon  after  disaster. 

Along  rode  a  boy — on  horseback — the  first  person  we 
had  seen  for  hours.  We  stopped  him,  and  inquired 


30  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

where  we  could  find  a  mule,  a  rope  and  a  man.  Having 
started  out  to  make  the  trip  without  masculine  aid,  it 
chagrined  us  to  have  to  resort  to  it  at  our  first  difficulty, 
but  we  were  not  foolish  enough  to  believe  we  could  extri- 
cate the  car  unaided  from  its  bed  of  sticky  clay.  The  boy 
looked  at  us,  looked  at  the  imprisoned  machine,  and 
silently  spat.  Texas  must  have  a  law  requiring  that 
rite,  with  penalties  for  infringement  thereof.  We  never 
saw  it  broken. 

The  formality  over,  he  replied,  "I  don't  know."  We 
suggested  planks, — he  knew  of  none.  We  put  him  down, 
bitterly,  as  an  ill-natured  dolt.  But,  as  we  learned  later, 
Texans  move  slowly,  but  their  hearts  are  in  the  right 
place.  He  was  only  warming  up.  Finally  he  spat  again, 
lighted  a  cigarette,  got  off  his  horse,  silently  untied  a 
rope  from  his  saddle,  and  bound  it  about  our  back  wheel, 
disregarding  calmly  the  mire  sucking  at  his  boots.  I 
started  the  engine.  No  results.  All  three  watched  the 
fettered  Gulliver  helplessly.  Then,  while  Toby  and  I 
lifted  out  heavy  suitcases  and  boxes  from  the  seat  which 
held  the  chains,  he  watched  us,  with  the  mild  patience  of 
an  ox. 

Reinforcements  came,  a  moment  later,  from  a  decrepit 
buggy,  containing  a  boy  and  two  girls.  They  consulted, 
on  seeing  our  plight,  and  the  girls,  hearty  country  lasses 
in  bare  feet  and  sunbonnets,  urged  their  escort,  appar- 
ently to  his  relief,  to  stay  the  Sunday  courtship  and  give 
us  aid.  Of  more  agile  fettle  than  our  first  knight,  he 
galvanized  him  into  a  semblance  of  motion.  Together 
they  gathered  brush,  and,  denuding  their  horses  for  the 
purpose,  tied  bits  of  rope  to  the  rear  wheels.  The  en- 
gine started,  stalled,  and  started  again  a  dozen  times. 


CHIVALRY  VS.  GUMBO  31 

At  last  the  car  stirred  a  bit  from  her  lethargy,  the  two 
boys  put  their  country  strength  against  her  broad  back 
and  pushed;  the  engine  roared  like  a  man-eating  tiger — 
and  we  got  out. 

But  we  still  had  to  conquer  a  black  stretch  of  about 
one  hundred  yards,  in  which  one  of  our  rescuers  had 
broken  an  axle,  so  he  cheerfully  told  us,  only  yesterday. 
We  were  faced  with  the  problem  to  advance  or  retreat? 
Either  way  was  mud.  We  might  get  caught  between 
two  morasses,  and  starve  to  death  before  the  sun  dried 
the  roads.  We  might  turn  back,  but  why  return  to  con- 
ditions we  had  worked  two  hours  to  escape?  We  de- 
cided to  advance  boldly,  and,  if  need  be,  gloriously  break 
an  axle.  "Race  her  for  all  she's  worth,"  counseled  the 
livelier  of  our  rescuers,  from  the  running  board  where 
he  acted  as  pilot.  I  raced  her,  though  it  nearly  broke 
my  heart  to  mistreat  the  engine  so  cruelly.  We  wavered, 
struck  a  rut,  and  were  gripped  in  it,  as  in  the  bonds  of 
matrimony,  for  better  or  worse.  It  led  us  to  a  gruesome 
mass  of  "soup,"  with  a  yawning  hole  at  the  bottom. 

"Here's  where  I  broke  my  axle,"  shouted  my  pilot. 
To  break  the  shock  meant  to  stick;  to  race  ahead  might 
mean  a  shattered  car.  There  was  no  time  to  think  it 
over.  I  pushed  down  on  the  gas.  A  fearful  bump,  and 
we  went  on,  the  mud  sucking  at  the  tires  with  every  inch 
we  advanced.  Cheering,  the  others  picked  their  way  to 
us.  Our  friends  piled  our  baggage  into  the  tonneau. 
Toby  and  I  looked  at  each  other,  worried  by  the  same 
problem, — the  problem  that  never  ceased  to  bother  us 
until  we  reached  Chicago; — to  tip  or  not  to  tip? 

They  were  such  nice  lads ;  we  already  seemed  like  old 
friends.  Yet  they  were  strangers  who  had  scratched 


32  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

their  hands  and  muddied  their  clothes,  and  relinquished 
cheerfully  the  Sunday  society  of  their  ladies  on  our  be- 
half. Too  much  to  offer  pay  for,  it  seemed  too  much 
to  accept  without  offering  to  pay.  We  learned  then  that 
such  an  offer  outrages  neither  Western  independence  nor 
Southern  chivalry  when  made  in  frank  gratitude  and  good- 
fellowship.  The  first  suggestion  of  payment  invariably 
meets  an  off-hand  but  polite  refusal,  which  tact  may  some- 
times change  to  acceptance.  If  accepted,  it  is  never  as  a 
tip,  but  as  a  return  for  services ;  offer  it  as  a  tip,  and  you 
offer  an  insult  to  a  friend.  We  found  it  a  good  rule,  as 
Americans  dealing  with  Americans,  to  be  graceful  enough 
to  play  the  more  difficult  role  of  recipient  when  we  de- 
cently could,  and  in  the  spirit  of  the  West,  "pass  it  on  to 
the  next  fellow." 

Eagle  Lake  seemed  as  difficult  to  attain  as  the  treasure 
beyond  seven  rivers  of  fire  and  seven  mountains  of  glass. 
An  hour's  clear  sailing  over  roads  no  worse  than 
ploughed  fields  brought  it  nearly  in  sight, — seven  miles 
to  go,  under  a  pink  sky  lighted  by  a  silver  crescent.  And 
then  Toby,  seeing  a  grassy  lake  on  the  side  of  the  road, 
forsook  two  tried  and  trusty  mud-holes  for  it,  and  ditched 
us  again ! 

Nearby  was  a  farmhouse,  with  two  men  and  a  Ford 
standing  in  the  driveway.  Hardly  had  we  "boaged," 
our  wheels  churning  a  pool  deep  enough  to  bathe  in,  when 
we  saw  them  loading  shovels  and  tools  into  the  car, 
and  driving  to  our  aid.  They  came  with  foreboding 
haste.  They  greeted  us  cheerfully — too  cheerfully,  we 
thought;  joked  about  the  hole,  and  admitted  they  spent 
most  of  their  time  shovelling  people  out.  They  knew 
their  job — we  had  to  admit  that.  They  wrestled  with 


CHIVALRY  VS.  GUMBO  33 

the  jack,  setting  it  on  a  shovel  to  keep  it  from  sinking 
in  the  swamp;  profanely  cheerful,  fussed  over  the  chains, 
which  we  later  guiltily  discovered  were  too  short  for  our 
over-sized  tires,  backed  their  car  to  ours,  tied  a  rope  to  it, 
and  pulled.  We  sank  deeper.  They  shoveled,  jacked, 
chopped  sage-brush,  and  commandeered  every  passing 
man  and  car.  The  leader  of  the  wreckers  was  a  Mr. 
Poole,  a  typical  Westerner  of  the  old  school, — long, 
flowing  gray  whiskers,  sombrero,  and  keen  watchful  face. 
He  had  also  a  delightful  sense  of  humor, — was  in  fact 
so  cheerful  that  we  became  more  and  more  gloomy  as  we 
noted  the  array  of  Fords  and  men  clustered  about.  It 
looked  to  us  like  a  professional  mud-hole. 

They  hitched  two  Fords  to  the  car,  while  eight  men 
pushed  from  the  back,  but  nothing  came  of  the  effort. 
A  fine  looking  man  named  Sinclair,  with  gentle  manners, 
was  elected  by  the  crowd  to  go  for  his  mule  team,  "the 
finest  pair  in  the  county."  An  hour  later  he  came  back, 
He  had  gone  two  miles,  changed  to  overalls,  and  hitched 
up  his  mules  in  the  meantime,  returning  astride  the  off 
beast. 

At  sight  of  the  fallen  car,  the  mules  gave  a  gently 
ironic  side-glance,  stepped  into  place,  waited  quietly,  and 
at  the  word  of  command,  stepped  forward  nonchalantly, 
while  I  started  the  car  simultaneously.  It  took  them 
exactly  five  minutes  to  do  what  eight  men,  two  women, 
two  Fords  and  a  Cadillac  had  failed  to  do  in  two  hours' 
hard  work.  For  days  after,  when  we  passed  a  mule, 
we  offered  him  silent  homage. 

While  Toby,  looking  and  acting  like  a  guilty  wretch, 
piled  the  baggage  into  the  car,  I  approached  Mr.  Sin- 
clair and  Mr.  Poole,  who  stood  watching  the  rescued 


34 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


leviathan  with  eyes  gleaming  satisfaction,  and  put  the 
usual  timid  question. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  I  can  offer  all  these  people  for 
helping  us  out?" 

Mr.  Sinclair,  owner  of  the  stalwart  mules,  smiled  and 
said:  "I  shouldn't  offer  them  a  thing.  We  all  get  into 
trouble  one  time  or  another,  and  have  to  be  helped  out. 
Just  you  tell  them  'thank  you'  and  I  reckon  that'll  be  all 
the  pay  they  want." 

And  before  we  could  turn  around  to  carry  out  his 
injunction,  half  the  crowd  had  melted  away! 

To  all  motorists  who  become  uboaged,"  I  beg  to 
recommend  the  mud-hole  of  my  friends,  Mr.  Poole  and 
Mr.  Sinclair,  of  Lissie,  Texas. 


CHAPTER  V 

NIBBLING  AT  THE  MAP  OF  TEXAS 

T  TISITING  an  ostrich  farm  is  as  thrilling  as  going  in 
V  wading,  but  to  be  thorough,  we  did  our  duty  by 
San  Antonio's  plumed  and  gawky  giants  before  starting 
again  on  our  well-nigh  hopeless  task  of  making  an  im- 
pression on  the  State  of  Texas. 

When  we  looked  at  our  mileage  record  we  were  en- 
couraged, only  to  be  cast  down  again  by  a  glance  at  the 
map,  whose  south-west  corner  we  had  only  begun  to  nibble 
at  in  six  days'  faithful  plodding.  It  was  an  incentive  to 
an  early  start.  We  filled  our  tank  with  gas  at  the  tiled 
station  near  the  Alamo,  rejoicing  in  the  moderate  price. 
In  one  respect,  at  least,  Texas  is  the  motorists's  paradise. 
Gasoline  is  cheap,  oil  is  cheap,  storage  for  the  night 
ranges  from  "two  bits"  to  half  a  dollar,  while  clear 
weather  and  local  honesty  make  it  possible  to  avoid  even 
that  expense  by  leaving  the  car  overnight  in  the  Garage 
of  the  Blue  Sky.  Tires  are  mended  and  changed  for  a 
quarter,  and  in  some  places  for  nothing.  And  garage- 
keepers  are  honest, — except  when,  yielding  to  local  pa- 
triotism, they  describe  the  state  of  the  roads. 

For  three  miles  we  meandered  through  San  Antonio's 
"Cabbage  Patch,"  steering  around  tin  cans,  Mexican 
babies,  and  goats  taking  the  freedom  of  the  city,  until 
we  came  to  a  fine  broad  macadam  in  good  repair, — our 
first  real  road  since  the  ill-fated  stretch  outside  Houston. 

35 


36  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

Mexicans  hung  outside  their  little  shops,  whose  festoons 
of  onions  and  peppers  painted  Italy  into  the  landscape. 
Overhead,  we  counted  dozens  of  airplanes,  some  from 
the  government  school,  others  from  Katharine  Stinson's 
modest  hangars,  making  the  most  of  the  weather.  One 
coquetted  with  us,  following  us  for  several  miles.  We 
leaned  out  and  waved,  but  at  that,  it  was  a  most  im- 
personal form  of  flirtation.  Not  a  quiver  of  the  great 
wings,  not  a  swoop  through  the  blue,  rewarded  our  aban- 
don. I  wish  I  might  record  otherwise,  for  a  moment 
later  a  rusty  nail  had  flattened  our  back  tire,  and  we 
were  left  alone  on  the  prairie  to  solve  the  problem  of 
changing  the  heavy  rims,  which  our  combined  strength 
could  hardly  lift.  How  romantic  and  happy  a  touch 
could  be  added  to  this  narrative  if  at  this  point  I  could 
state  that  the  airman  fluttered  to  our  feet,  saluted, 
changed  the  tire,  and  then  circled  back  to  the  blue.  But, 
doubtless  himself  from  Boston,  he  did  no  such  thing.  He 
kept  steadily  on  his  course,  till  he  was  only  a  speck  in  our 
lives.  If  the  cautious  man  reads  this,  let  him  know  he  is 
forgiven  the  tire,  but  not  the  climax. 

We  had  been  airy,  at  home,  when  they  mentioned  the 
tires.  There  were,  nevertheless,  internal  doubts.  Mass- 
achusetts is  too  crowded  with  garages  to  furnish  much 
practice  in  wayside  repairing,  and  I  had  been  lucky.  But 
now  came  the  test.  Theoretically,  we  understood  the 
process,  but  jacks  go  up  when  they  should  go  down,  nuts 
rust,  and  rims  warp.  We  searched  the  horizon  for 
help,  found  none,  pulled  out  the  tools,  and  got  down  in 
the  mud. 

Our  jack  was  the  kind  whose  advertisements  show 
an  immaculate  young  lady  in  white  daintily  propelling  a 


NIBBLING  AT  THE  MAP  OF  TEXAS     37 

handle  at  arm's  length,  while  the  car  rises  easily  in  the 
air.  Admitting  she  has  the  patience  of  Job,  the  strength 
of  Samson,  and  the  ingenuity  of  the  devil,  I  should  like 
to  meet  her  just  long  enough  to  ask  her  if  she  stood  off 
at  arm's  length  while  she  put  the  jack  in  place,  rescued 
it  as  it  toppled  over,  searched  vainly  for  a  solid  spot  in 
which  the  jack  would  not  sink,  pulled  it  out  of  the  mud 
again,  pushed  the  car  off  as  it  rolled  back  on  her,  hunted 
for  stones  to  prop  it  up,  and  a  place  in  the  axles  where 
the  arm  would  fit,  and  then  had  the  latch  give  way  and  be 
obliged  to  do  it  all  over  again.  And,  with  no  reflections 
on  the  veracity  of  the  lady  or  her  inspired  advertiser,  I 
should  demand  the  address  of  her  pastor  and  her  laun- 
dress. 

We  worked  half  an  hour  jacking  up  the  car.  No 
sooner  had  we  got  it  where  it  should  be,  than  the  car's 
weight  sank  it  in  the  mud,  and  we  had  to  begin  again 
our  snail  process.  To  my  delight,  Toby  was  fascinated 
by  the  thing,  and  from  that  hour  claimed  it  as  her  own. 
We  mutually  divided  the  labor  as  our  tastes  and  talents 
dictated.  It  seemed  that  Toby  revelled  in  handling  tools, 
which  dropped  from  my  inept  grasp,  while  my  sense  of 
mechanics  and  experience  surpassed  hers.  I  was  to  be 
the  diagnostician,  she  the  surgeon.  In  other  words,  I 
bossed  the  job,  while  she  did  the  work. 

While  Toby  struggled  with  the  jack  a  Mexican  on  a 
flea-bitten  cayuse  slouched  on  the  horizon.  He  was  black 
and  hairy,  and  one  "six-gun"  in  his  teeth  would  have 
signed  his  portrait  as  Captain  of  the  Bandits.  I  stopped 
him  and  asked  him  to  lend  us  his  brute  strength,  which 
he  smilingly  did,  pleased  as  a  child  at  being  initiated  into 
the  sacred  mysteries  of  motoring.  When  T  allowed  him 


38  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

to  propel  the  socket-wrench  his  cup  ran  over.  He  did 
everything  backward,  but  he  furnished  horse-sense,  which 
we  lacked,  and  when  we  attempted  to  lift  heavy  weights, 
he  courteously  supplanted  us.  The  three  of  us  invented 
a  lingua  franca  in  Mexican,  Italian,  French  and  musical 
terms. 

"Tire, — avanti !"  Gesture  of  lifting.  Groan, — signi- 
fying great  weight. 

"Troppo, — troppo!  Largo,  largo!  Ne  faites  pas  c,a! 
Ah-h,  si,  si, — bono  hombre,  multo,  multo  bono  hombre  I" 

Thus  encouraged,  he  worked  willingly  and  faithfully, 
and  at  the  end  of  a  half  hour's  toil,  waved  aside  our 
thanks,  untied  his  weary  cayuse,  and  raised  his  sombrero. 
He  had  not  robbed  us  nor  beaten  us,  but  had  acted  as  one 
Christian  to  another.  I  ran  after  him  saying  fluently,  as 
if  I  had  known  the  language  all  my  life,  "Multo,  multo, 
beaucoup  bono  hombre."  He  showed  his  brilliant  teeth. 
I  offered  .him  money,  which  he  at  first  refused.  "Bono 
hombre,"  I  insisted,  "Cigarettes!"  And  so  he  took  it, 
much  pleased.  He  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  episode.  I 
hope  his  boss  did,  when  he  arrived  *an  hour  late.  Toby 
enjoyed  the  episode,  too,  and  persisted  in  sending  home 
postcards,  on  which  she  spoke  of  being  rescued  by  a 
Mexican  bandit. 

During  the  morning  several  little  towns, — all  alike, 
flitted  by  us, — Sabinal,  Hondo,  Dunlay.  At  Hondo, 
where  the  mud  was  thickest,  we  stopped  at  a  little  general 
store  for  lunch.  The  proprietor,  a  tall,  vague  man,  dis- 
cussed earnestly,  as  one  connoisseur  to  another,  the  merits 
of  the  various  tinned  goods  he  submitted,  and  after  a 
leisurely  chat  and  several  purchases  k  which  the  matter 
of  trade  became  secondary,  he  urged  on  us  seFeral  painted 


NIBBLING  AT  THE  MAP  OF  TEXAS     39 

sticks  of  candy,  a  new  kind  which  he  said  he  enjoyed  suck- 
ing during  his  solitary  guard  at  the  store.  After  the 
customary,  "You're  a  long  ways  from  home,"  he  bade  us 
goodbye,  hopefully  but  sadly,  as  one  would  a  consumptive 
great-aunt  about  to  take  a  trip  to  the  North  Pole,  and 
watched  us  bump  out  of  sight. 

We  had  twenty  miles  of  such  luxuriant  mud  that  we 
stopped  to  photograph  it.  It  is  only  slight  exaggeration 
to  say  that  the  ruts  came  to  the  camera's  level.  Then 
we  forded  the  Neuces  River,  a  stream  woven  into  early 
Texan  history,  and  began  to  climb  out  of  the  land  of 
cotton  into  the  grazing  country.  The  herds  and  herds 
of  sheep  and  white  angora  goats  we  now  encountered 
made  a  charming  landscape  but  an  irritating  episode.  A 
large  flock  of  silly  sheep  rambled  halfway  to  our  car, 
then,  frightened,  fled  in  the  other  direction,  turning  again 
with  those  they  met,  who  also  faced  and  fled,  baa-ing; 
no  militia  could  clear  the  traffic  they  disorganized.  Each 
herd  we  met  meant  a  wasted  half  hour.  Their  herders 
sat  their  horses  in  grim  patience,  with  the  infinite  con- 
tempt shepherds  get  for  their  charges  and  for  life  in 
general.  Out  here,  "being  the  goat"  takes  a  new  and 
dignified  meaning — for.  a  goat  is  placed  with  each  hun- 
dred sheep  to  steer  the  brainless  mass,  act  as  leaders  in 
danger,  and  furnish  the  one  brain  of  the  herd. 

These  pastoral  happenings  delayed  us,  until  toward 
night  we  climbed  dark  dunes  into  a  clear  golden  sunset. 
Through  a  gate  we  entered  what  seemed  to  be  a  cattle 
track  through  a  large  ranch,  but  was  in  fact  the  main 
highway  to  El  Paso.  The  roads  in  this  part  of  the 
country  cut  through  large  holdings,  and  the  pestiferous 
cattle  gate  begins  to  bar  the  road,  necessitating  stopping, 


40  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

crossing,  shutting  the  gate  again,  several  times  a  mile. 
And  let  me  warn  the  traveling  Easterner  that  not  to  leave 
a  gate  as  you  find  it  is  in  truth  a  crime  against  hospitality, 
for  one  is  often  on  private  property. 

Queer  blunt  mesas  rose  on  all  sides  of  us,  and  when 
dark  came  upon  us  we  had  entered  a  small  canyon,  and 
were  winding  to  the  top  and  down  again  out  of  the 
hills.  The  cattlegates  and  rocky  road  made  going  slow, 
and  as  Venus,  frosty  and  brilliant,  came  out,  we  were  im- 
prisoned in  this  weirdly  gloomy  spot,  on  the  top  of  the 
world.  A  quaver  in  Toby's  usually  stalwart  voice  made 
me  wonder  if  she  were  remembering  her  mother's  last 
words, — "Don't  drive  at  night."  This  is  no  reflection  on 
Toby's  staunchness;  the  immensity  of  the  West,  after 
dark,  when  first  it  looms  above  one  used  to  the  coziness 
of  ordered  streets,  must  always  seem  portentous  and 
awful.  We  hastened  on,  winding  down  through  one  en- 
chanting glade  after  another,  till  we  met  the  highway 
again.  Toby  took  the  wheel,  and  we  hummed  along. 
Suddenly  a  stone  struck  the  engine,  and  a  deafening  roar 
like  that  of  an  express  train  frightened  us.  Something 
vital,  by  its  clatter,  had  been  shattered,  and  we  again 
faced  the  possibility  of  delay  and  frustration — even  re- 
treat. We  got  out  and  searched  for  the  trouble.  Luckily 
we  had  that  day  unpacked  our  flashlight,  for  Venus, 
though  she  looked  near  enough  to  pick  out  of  the  sky,  fur- 
nished poor  illumination  for  engine  troubles.  Search  re- 
vealed an  important  looking  pipe  beneath  the  car  broken 
in  two,  with  a  jagged  fracture.  Should  we  chance  driving 
on,  or  camp  till  morning? 

We  were  tired  and  our  pick-up  lunch  of  deviled  ham 
and  crackers  seemed  long  ago.  After  a  hard  day's  run, 


i, 


NIBBLING  AT  THE  MAP  OF  TEXAS     41 

the  difficulties  of  making  camp  in  the  dark,  with  our 
equipment  still  unpacked,  and  going  cold  and  supper- 
less  to  bed  loomed  large.  Besides,  there  could  not  have 
been  worse  camping  ground  in  the  world.  Soggy  cot- 
ton fields  under  water  on  both  sides  gave  us  the  choice 
of  sleeping  in  the  middle  of  the  road  or  on  the  back 
seat  piled  high  with  baggage.  The  engine,  though  roar- 
ing like  a  wounded  lioness,  still  ran  steadily.  I  knew  just 
enough  to  realize  we  had  broken  the  exhaust  pipe,  but 
hardly  enough  to  know  whether  running  the  car  under 
such  conditions  would  maim  it  for  life.  But  though 
hunger  won  out,  the  real  mechanic's  love  for  his  engine 
was  born  in  us,  and  feeling  like  parents  who  submit  their 
only  child  to  a  major  operation,  we  drove  painfully  at 
eight  miles  an  hour  the  ten  miles  into  B — ,  the  town  echo- 
ing to  our  coming. 

The  village  was  a  mere  cross-roads,  a  most  unlikely 
place  for  a  night's  stop,  picturesque  and  Mexican,  with 
low  'dobe  houses,  yellow  and  pink,  the  noise  of  a  phono- 
graph from  each  corner,  and  lighted  doorways  filled  with 
slouching  Mexicans  and  trig  American  doughboys  from 
a  nearby  camp, — and  everywhere  else,  Rembrandtian 
gloom.  At  a  new  tin  garage  with  the  universal  Henry's 
name  over  the  door  we  were  relieved  to  learn  we  had 
done  no  damage.  Most  of  the  cars  in  town  had,  in 
fact,  broken  their  exhaust  pipes  on  loose  stones,  and  ran 
chugging,  as  we  had. 

It  is  not  usual  for  garage  helpers  to  aid  strange  ladies 
in  hunting  a  night's  lodging,  but  ours  willingly  let  them- 
selves be  commandeered  for  the  purpose,  and  the  chase 
began.  The  town  had  a  "hotel" ; — which,  in  the  South, 
may  be  a  one-story  cafe,  or  something  less  ambitious. 


42  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

This  one,  kept  by  a  negro  woman,  was  more  than  dubious 
looking,  but  when  the  proprietor  said  it  was  "full  up,"  our 
hearts  sank.  We  wearily  made  the  rounds  of  the  village, 
guided  by  rumors  of  a  vacant  room  here  or  there,  only  to 
find  the  houses,  four-roomed  cottages  at  best,  filled  with 
army  wives.  Our  needs  reduced  us  to  Bolshevism.  Pass- 
ing an  imposing  white  house,  neat  as  wax,  and  two  stories 
high,  we  sent  our  cicerone  to  demand  for  us  lodging  for 
the  night.  Had  it  been  the  official  White  House  we 
should  have  done  no  less,  and  as  the  residence  of  the 
owner  of  the  garage  where  our  cripple  was  stored  it  gave 
us  a  claim  on  his  hospitality  no  right-minded  citizen 
could  deny.  Alas,  we  learned  that  Mr.  V's  eleven  hos- 
tages to  fortune,  rather  than  civic  pride,  accounted  for 
the  size  of  his  house.  The  owner  sent  us  a  cordially 
regretful  message  that  his  bedrooms  teemed  with  little 
V's,  but  thought  his  brother's  daughter  might  take  the 
strangers  in,  as  her  parents  were  away  and  their  room 
vacant. 

A  little  figure  in  a  nightgown  opened  the  door  a  crack 
when  we  knocked  at  their  cottage. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  a  Southern  voice,  timidly. 

"Two  ladies  from  Boston,  who  would  like  a  room  for 
the  night."  We  threw  as  much  respectable  matronliness 
as  possible  into  our  own  voices.  The  magic  word  "Bos- 
ton" reassured.  Boston  may  be  a  dishonored  prophet 
in  Cambridge  and  Brookline,  but  to  the  South  and  West 
it  remains  autocrat  of  the  breakfast  table.  I  know  our 
prospective  hostess,  from  the  respect  and  relief  in  her 
tones,  visualized  Louisa  May  Alcott  and  Julia  Ward 
Howe  waiting  on  her  doorstep,  and  she  hastened  to 


NIBBLING  AT  THE  MAP  OF  TEXAS     43 

throw  open  the  door  to  what  we  saw  was  her  bedroom, 
saying  "Come  in!  You're  a  long  ways " 

Boston,  your  stay-at-homes  never  realize  how  distant, 
how  remote  and  fabulous  your  rock-bound  shores  seem  to 
the  Other  Half  west  of  the  Mississippi ! 

It  was  a  German  Lutheran  household  into  which  we 
stepped.  Two  little  tow-headed  boys  were  curled  up 
asleep  in  their  sister's  room,  and  we  tip-toed  past  to  the 
parents'  vacated  bedroom,  ours  for  the  night,  with  its 
mottoes,  its  lithographed  Christ  on  the  wall,  its  stove  and 
tightly  shut  windows.  This  German  family  had  brought 
over  old-world  peasant  habits,  and  curiously  contrasted 
against  its  bareness,  promiscuity  and  not  over  scrupulous 
cleanliness  was  the  American  daughter  who  needed  but  a 
little  more  polish  to  be  ready  for  any  rung  in  the  social 
ladder.  She  was  a  real  little  lady,  as  hospitable  as  though 
we  had  been  really  invited. 

Supperless,  footsore  and  weary,  we  tumbled  into  the 
sheets  vacated  by  the  elder  V's  that  morning,  too  grate- 
ful for  shelter  and  the  softness  of  the  feather  bed  to  feel 
squeamish.  We  waked  in  the  sunshine  of  next  morning 
to  smell  coffee  brewing  on  our  bedroom  stove,  and  hear 
cautious  whispers  of  two  sturdy  little  Deutschers  tip- 
toeing back  and  forth  through  our  room  to  the  wash-shed 
beyond,  stealing  awed  glances  at  the  Boston  ladies  in  their 
mother's  bed.  In  a  stage  whisper  one  called  to  his  sister 
to  learn  where  "the  comb"  was.  She  answered  that  Pa 
had  taken  it  to  San  Anton',  but  after  some  search  found 
them  "the  brush"  hidden  near  father's  notary  stamp,  on 
the  bureau, — for  the  father  was  the  local  judge  and  a 
man  much  respected  in  the  community. 

When  the  little  boys  departed  for  school,  she  brought 


44  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

us  coffee  in  the  best  china,  apologizing  for  not  offering 
us  breakfast.  She  explained  that  she  was  to  be  married 
in  three  days,  and  was  following  her  family  to  San  An- 
ton7 for  the  wedding.  She  showed  us  her  ring,  and  her 
trousseau,  all  in  pink,  to  her  joy,  and  told  us  of  her 
fiance,  who  had  been  a  second  lieutenant  in  France. 
Though  she  seemed  a  child,  she  had  refused  to  marry  him 
when  he  left,  because  she  believed  haste  at  such  times  im- 
prudent. And  now  she  was  all  excitement  over  the  great 
event,  yet  not  too  much  to  show  a  welcome  as  simple 
as  it  was  beautiful  to  the  midnight  intruders  from  Boston. 

As  usual,  our  desire  to  pay  for  our  lodging  met  a  firm, 
almost  shocked  refusal.  We  only  felt  more  nearly  even 
when  at  El  Paso  we  sent  her  something  deliciously  pink 
for  her  trousseau. 

In  Texas,  overnight  promises  are  to  be  discounted. 
Or  is  it  not,  perhaps,  a  universal  law  of  the  "night  man" 
to  pass  on  no  information  to  the  "day  man?"  Has  the 
order  taken  a  vow  of  silence  more  binding  and  terrible 
than  the  Dominican  friars?  It  must  be  so,  for  never  in 
ten  years'  experience  with  night  men,  have  I  known  one 
to  break  the  seal  of  secrecy  which  prevents  them  letting 
your  confidence  in  the  matter  of  flat  tires  and  empty  tanks 
go  any  further.  Their  delicacy  in  keeping  all  news  of 
such  infirmities  from  the  ears  of  the  day  man  is  universal. 
Nor  was  there  any  exception  next  morning,  when  we 
visited  our  garage,  hopeful  of  an  early  start.  The  ex- 
haust pipe  was  still  unwelded,  and  our  spare  tire  still 
flat.  Furthermore,  we  were  half  an  hour  in  the  garage 
before  anyone  thought  to  mention  that  the  resources  of 
the  place  were  inadequate  to  mend  the  pipe.  They  had 
trusted  to  our  divining  the  fact,  as  the  day  wore  on, — a 


NIBBLING  AT  THE  MAP  OF  TEXAS     45 

more  tactful  way  of  breaking  the  news  than  coming  out 
bluntly  with  the  truth. 

At  last,  a  passing  stranger  suggested  we  take  the  car 
to  the  nearby  Fort,  where  a  new  welding  machine  had 
recently  been  installed.  We  chugged  up  the  hill,  attract- 
ing the  notice  of  several  soldiers  from  East  Boston,  on 
whom  our  Massachusetts  number  produced  a  wave  of 
nostalgia.  By  this  time,  so  used  were  we  to  being  bene- 
ficiaries of  entire  strangers  that  before  hailing  anyone 
likely  to  offer  to  do  us  a  favor,  we  fixed  smiles  fairly 
dripping  with  saccharine  on  our  faces. 

A  sergeant,  hearing  sympathetically  our  story,  sent 
us  to  a  lieutenant.  He  wavered. 

"I  hate  not  to  oblige  a  lady,  ma'am,  but  this  is  gov- 
ernment property,  and  we  aint  allowed  to  do  outside 
work." 

Looking  at  his  stern  face,  we  decided  it  would  take  at 
least  an  hour  to  win  him  over.  Without  moving  a  muscle 
he  continued 

"But,  seein'  as  you're  a  lady  and  a  long  ways  from 
home,  and  can't  git  accommodated  otherwise,  you  run 
your  car  back  to  the  garage  and  I'll  send  a  sergeant  down 
to  get  the  part,  and  he'll  have  it  welded  for  you  in  a 
couple  of  hours." 

Two  hours  later  not  only  the  sergeant  but  the  lieuten- 
ant were  at  the  garage  to  see  that  the  part  went  back 
properly  into  the  engine.  Meanwhile,  doubting  the  ethics 
of  letting  Uncle  Sam  be  our  mechanic,  we  had  provided 
two  boxes  of  Camels  for  our  benefactors,  having  learned 
that  cigarettes  will  often  be  acceptable  where  money 
will  not.  The  part  was  perfectly  welded,  the  sergeant  re- 
placed it  with  military  efficiency,  and  then  we  exchanged 


46  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

confidences.  The  lieutenant  told  us  he  was  a  "long-horn,' 
but  had  been,  before  the  war,  a  foreman  in  the  very  fac- 
tory which  had  built  our  car.  Which  explained  his  cor- 
diality, if  explanation  were  needed  in  a  land  where  every- 
one is  cordial.  We  found  that  respect  for  the  sterling 
worth  of  our  car  helped  us  along  our  way  appreciably, — 
people  everywhere  approved  it  as  "a  good  car,"  and  ex- 
tended their  approval  to  its  inmates.  The  lieutenant  non- 
plused us  by  refusing  both  pay  and  tobacco,  but  indicated 
that  we  might  bestow  both  on  the  sergeant.  He  asked  us 
to  let  him  know  when  we  came  again  to  Texas,  and  we 
promised  willingly,  thanked  Uncle  Sam  for  his  chivalry 
by  proxy,  and  were  quickly  on  our  way  to  Del  Rio. 
Texas  had  not  yet  failed  us. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"DOWN  BY  THE  RIO  GRANDE" 

EVERY  thriving  Western  town,  if  its  politics  are 
right,  looks  down  on  its  hotels  and  up  to  its  post- 
office.  Del  Rio  was  no  exception;  her  granite  post-office, 
imposing  enough  for  three  towns  of  its  size,  suggested 
Congressional  sensitiveness  to  fences,  while  down  street 
a  block  or  two,  the  weather-beaten  boards  of  "Frank's," 
with  its  creaking  verandahs  and  uncarpeted  lobby,  printed 
the  earlier  pages  of  the  little  settlement,  which,  strad- 
dling the  river  from  Mexico,  had  become  the  nucleus 
for  frontier  trade  eddying  to  its  banks. 

It  is  true  that  other  hotels,  of  the  spick  and  span  brick 
ugliness  the  New  West  delights  in,  flanked  the  motion 
picture  houses  and  drug-stores,  but  we  chose  Frank's, 
the  oldest  inhabitant, — a  type  of  hotel  fast  becoming  ex- 
tinct. Downstairs,  plain  sheathing;  upstairs  the  same. 
Our  bedroom  opened  on  a  veranda  which  we  had  to  tra- 
verse to  reach  the  bath.  It  was  a  novelty  to  us,  but  the 
traveling  salesman  next  door  took  it  casually  enough, 
— or  else  he  had  forgotten  to  pack  his  bath-robe. 

Our  hostess  was  the  first  of  a  long  list  of  ladies  young 
and  old  we  were  to  meet,  who  knew  well  the  gentle  art 
of  twirling  a  toothpick  while  she  talked.  Perhaps  it  is 
the  badge  of  a  waitress  in  these  parts,  like  a  fresh  bush 
over  ancient  wine-houses,  a  silent,  but  eloquent  testi- 
monial to  the  gustatory  treats  of  the  hotel.  I  think  we 

47 


48  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

never  met,  from  now  on,  a  waitress  in  Texas,  Arizona 
or  New  Mexico,  who  was  not  thus  equipped.  Ours  did 
not  flourish  hers  in  vain.  The  flakiness  of  the  biscuits, 
the  fragrance  of  the  wild  honey,  and  the  melting  de- 
liciousness  of  the  river  fish,  caught  fresh  in  the  Rio 
Grande  an  hour  before,  caused  us  to  see  Del  Rio  with 
happy  eyes.  To  this  day,  Toby  speaks  of  it  as  if  it  were 
the  third  finest  metropolis  of  the  West,  which  must  be 
attributed  entirely  to  the  seven  biscuits  which  floated  to 
her  hungry  mouth.  I  might  as  well  admit  at  once  our 
tendency,  which  I  suspect  other  travelers  share-,  to  grade 
a  town  by  the  food  it  served. 

I  suspect  that  Del  Rio,  to  one  unfed,  would  seem  a 
commonplace  hamlet,  save  for  its  interest  as  a  border 
settlement.  Mexico,  three  miles  away,  held  out  the 
charm  of  a  forbidden  land.  We  circled  next  morning  to 
its  border,  past  thatched  shanties  of  Mexicans  and 
negroes,  and  took  a  glance  at  the  desolate  land  be- 
yond, barren,  thorny,  rolling  away  to  faint  blue  hills.  A 
camp  of  United  States  soldiers  lay  athwart  our  path,  and 
two  alert  soldiers  with  a  grin  and  a  rifle  apiece  barred 
our  progress. 

Toby  had  been  keen  to  cross  the  line,  but  when  she 
saw  them  she  said  characteristically,  "Mexico  seems  to 
me  vastly  overrated."  So  ignoring  the  khaki,  of  our  own 
free  will  and  choice  we  turned  back.  I  confess  I  was 
relieved.  Toby  has  the  post  card  habit  to  such  an  extent 
that  I  was  prepared  to  have  to  fight  our  way  across  the 
border,  dodging  bullets  and  bandits,  so  that  she  might 
mail  nonchalant  cards  to  her  friends,  beginning,  "We 
have  just  dropped  into  Mexico." 

Our  curiosity  as  to  Mexico  gave  us  an  early  start. 


"DOWN  BY  THE  RIO  GRANDE"          49 

Soon  we  were  on  a  high  plateau,  all  the  world  rolling 
below  us.  Soft  brown  hills  led  out  to  faint  blue  moun- 
tains outlined  on  the  horizon.  With  a  thrill  we  realized 
we  were  viewing  the  beginnings  of  the  Rockies.  For  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  I  felt  I  had  all  the  room  I  wanted. 
We  basked  in  the  hot  sun,  expanding  physically  and 
spiritually  in  the  immensity  of  the  uncrowded  landscape. 
The  air  in  this  high  altitude  was  bracing,  but  not  cold. 
From  time  to  time  we  passed  prosperous  flocks  of  sheep, 
spotted  with  lively  black  goats.  Occasionally  a  lonely 
group  of  steers  held  out  against  the  encroaching  mutton. 
We  shared  with  them  the  state  of  Texas.  At  Comstock, 
a  flat  and  uninteresting  one-street  town,  we  lunched,  for- 
getting entirely  to  make  a  four-mile  detour  to  view  the 
highest  bridge  in  the  world.  All  day,  we  bent  our  ener- 
gies to  covering  another  half  inch  on  the  interminable 
map  of  Texas.  We  passed  our  last  stopping  place  for 
the  night.  There  was  too  much  outdoors  to  waste;  we 
decided  to  make  our  first  camp  in  a  live-oak  grove  some- 
body had  described  to  us. 

With  a  sense  of  adventure,  we  purchased  supplies  for 
our  supper  and  breakfast  at  a  little  town  we  reached  at 
glowing  sundown.  The  grocery  was  closed,  but  ,the 
amiable  proprietor  left  his  house  and  opened  his  store  for 
us.  Rumors  of  deep  sand  ahead  disturbed  us,  and  against 
the  emergency  we  purchased  for  "seven  bits"  a  shovel 
which  came  jointed,  so  that  it  could  be  kept  in  the  tool 
box  under  the  seat.  The  fact  that  it  was  so  short  that 
it  could  easily  repose  there  at  full  length  did  not  mar 
our  delight  at  this  novel  trick.  It  had  the  elemental 
charm  for  us  of  a  toy  which  will  do  two  things  at  once, — a 
charm  which  in  other  eras  accounted  for  the  vogue  of 


50  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

poison  rings,  folding  beds,  celluloid  collars  and  divided 
skirts.  It  was  a  perfectly  useless  little  shovel,  which 
made  us  happy  whenever  we  looked  at  it,  and  swear 
whenever  we  used  it. 

Thus  fortified  we  sped  on,  and  it  soon  became  pitch 
dark,  and  a  windy  night.  The  country  suddenly  stood 
on  end,  and  we  coasted  down  a  surprising  little  canyon,  to 
emerge  into  a  long  black  road  tangled  with  mesquite  on 
both  sides.  When  we  almost  despaired  of  finding  a 
suitable  camp,  we  came  casually  on  a  snug  little  grove, 
and  heard  nearby  the  rush  of  a  stream.  The  black  sky 
was  radiant  with  stars.  Orion  stood  on  his  head,  and  so 
did  the  dipper,  surrounded  by  constellations  unfamiliar 
to  our  Northern  eyes. 

In  the  chill  dark  we  felt  for  a  spot  to  pitch  our  tent. 
Spiky  mesquite  caught  and  tore  our  hair  nets.  Texas' 
millions  of  untenanted  acres  brooded  over  our  human 
unimportance,  till  a  charred  stick  or  empty  tin  can, 
stumbled  over  in  the  dark,  became  as  welcome  a  signal 
as  Friday's  footprint  to  Crusoe.  Jointing  our  useless 
little  spade,  we  dug  a  trench  in  the  soft  sand  for  our  hips 
to  rest  in,  hoisted  our  tent-rope  over  a  thorny  branch, 
folded  blanket-wise  our  auto  robes,  undressed  and  crept 
inside  our  house.  The  lamps  of  the  car  gave  us  light  to 
stow  away  our  belongings,  and  its  lumbering  sides 
screened  us  from  the  road.  With  a  sense  of  elation  we 
looked  at  the  circling  stars  through  our  tent  windows, 
and  heard  the  wind  rise  in  gusts  through  the  bare 
branches.  The  world  becomes  less  fearsome  with  a  roof 
over  one's  head. 

Dawn  is  the  camper's  hour  of  trial.     I  woke  from  a 


"DOWN  BY  THE  RIO  GRANDE"          51 

dream  that  a  mountain  lion  had  entered  our  shelter, 
when  Toby  sat  up  excitedly. 

"I  just  dreamed  a  bear  was  trying  to  get  in,n  she  said. 
The  coincidence  was  forboding,  yet  no  menagerie  ap- 
peared. Our  aching  hips,  tumbled  bedding  and  chilled 
bodies  made  us  dread  the  long  hours  to  breakfast.  Toby 
hinted  I  had  my  share  and  more  of  the  blanket.  I  had 
long  entertained  a  similar  suspicion  of  her,  but  was  too 
noble  to  mention  it.  We  portioned  out  the  bedding 
afresh,  vowed  we  never  again  would  camp  out,  and  in  a 
moment  it  was  eight  o'clock  of  a  cold,  foggy  morning. 

Yesterday  the  sun  had  been  hot  enough  to  blister 
Toby's  cheek.  Today  was  like  a  nor'-easter  off  Labrador. 
We  were  too  cold  to  get  up,  and  too  cold  to  stay  shiver- 
ing in  the  tent.  It  seemed  a  stalemate  which  might  last 
a  life-time,  when  suddenly  indecision  crystallized,  ex- 
ploded, and  we  found  ourselves  on  the  verge  of  the  ice- 
cold  stream  compromising  cleanliness  with  comfort. 

How  different  seems  the  same  folding  stove  viewed  on 
the  fifth  floor  of  a  sporting  goods  store  in  New  York, 
and  in  the  windy  open.  Piffling  and  futile  it  appeared 
to  us,  its  natural  inadequacy  increased  by  our  discovery 
that  our  fuel  cans  were  locked  in  our  trunk,  and  the  lock 
had  become  twisted.  It  further  appeared  that  most  of 
our  cooking  outfit  was  interned  in  the  same  trunk.  Ac- 
cordingly I  tried  to  build  a  fire,  while  Toby  took  down 
the  tent.  Camp  cooking  is  an  art  which  I  shall  not 
profane  by  describing  our  attempts  to  get  breakfast  that 
bleak  morning.  The  fire  smouldered,  but  refused  to 
break  into  the  bright  cheery  crackle  one  hears  about, 
and  finally,  untempted  by  the  logs  of  green  mesquite  we 
hopefully  fed  it,  went  out  entirely.  We  breakfasted  on 


52  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

the  remains  of  last  night's  supper,  washed  down  with  a 
curious  sticky  mixture  made  of  some  labor-saving  coffee 
preparation.  Realizing  that  it  took  more  than  the  outfit 
to  make  good  campers,  we  went  our  subdued  way.  Our 
water  bag  bumped  on  the  running-board,  falling  off  fre- 
quently, and  once  we  retraced  ten  muddy  miles  to 
retrieve  it. 

It  was  not  a  lucky  day.  Our  scant  breakfast,  lost 
waterbag  and  an  unhappy  lunch,  our  locked  trunk  and  all, 
were  but  the  precursors  of  a  worse  afternoon.  The  air 
was  thick  with  yellow  dust,  and  the  western  sky,  sickly 
green,  showed  columns  of  whirling,  eddying  sand  to 
right  or  left  of  us.  Though  we  followed  the  Southern 
Pacific  with  dog-like  devotion  we  lost  our  way  once  in  a 
crooked  maze  of  wagon  tracks  which  led  us  to  a  swamp, 
and  had  to  drive  back  ten  miles  to  the  nearest  house  to 
ask  directions.  To  make  up  for  lost  time,  in  the  bitter, 
reckless  mood  every  driver  knows,  when  nobody  in  the 
car  dare  speak  to  him,  I  raced  for  two  hours  at  forty- 
five,  through  sandy,  twisting  tracks,  with  the  car  rocking 
like  a  London  bus,  and  Toby  clinging  to  the  side,  not 
daring  to  remonstrate,  for  it  was  she  who  had  lost  us 
our  way.  Each  turn  was  a  gamble,  but  the  curves  were 
just  gentle  enough  to  hold  us  to  our  course. 

We  had  every  chance  of  making  our  night's  stop  before 
dark,  when  the  air  oozed  gently  out  of  the  rear  tire. 
Behind  us  a  sandstorm  rising  in  a  shifting  golden  haze 
lifted  twisted  columns  against  the  vivid  green  sky,  over 
which  dramatic  dark  clouds  drove,  while  a  spectacular 
sunset  lighted  the  chains  of  cold  dark  blue  and  trans- 
parent mauve  mountains  on  both  sides.  It  was  a  glori- 
ous but  ominous  sight,  and  the  tire  meant  delay.  A  flat 


B* 


s 

O 


"DOWN  BY  THE  RIO  GRANDE"          53 

tire,  however,  acts  on  Toby  like  a  bath  on  a  canary.  The 
jack  holds  no  mysteries  for  her,  and  tire  rims  click  into 
place  at  sound  of  her  voice.  And  our  peculiar  luck  had 
halted  us  within  a  few  yards  of  the  only  house  we  had 
passed  all  aftefrnoon.  Having  learned  that  frail  woman- 
hood need  neither  toil  nor  spin  in  Texas,  I  was  for 
seeking  aid,  but  Toby  scorned  help,  and  so  painted  the 
joys  of  independence  that  though  it  was  hot  and  dusty 
and  the  sand  storm  threatened,  I  bent  to  her  will.  And 
the  next  moment,  the  key  which  locked  engine,  tool-box 
and  spare  tire,  broke  off  in  the  padlock.  As  I  had  with 
unprecedented  prudence  bought  a  duplicate  in  New  York, 
we  were  not  completely  stranded,  but  that,  I  mentioned 
bitterly  to  Toby,  was  no  fault  of  hers.  Only  a  cold  chisel 
could  release  the  spare  tire,  and  we  found  we  had  none. 

"I  will  now  go  for  help,"  I  said  to  Toby  who  was 
defiantly  pretending  to  do  something  to  the  locked  tire 
with  a  hammer,  "as  I  should  have  at  first  but  for  your 
foolish  pride." 

As  stately  as  I  might  with  hair  blown  by  the  wind, 
yellow  goggles,  leather  coat  and  a  purple  muffler  tied 
over  my  hat,  I  retreated  toward  the  ranch-house.  In  the 
kitchen  I  startled  a  grizzled  old  couple  sitting  near  the 
fire.  When  I  explained  our  predicament,  and  begged 
the  loan  of  a  cold  chisel  the  old  man  asked,  "You  two 
girls  all  alone?" 

When  I  admitted  we  were,  he  called  to  his  son  in  the 
next  room,  "Horace,  go  see  what  you  can  do  for  the 
ladies." 

More  bashful  than  most  Texans,  the  lank  Horace  fol- 
lowed me  in  painful  silence  for  a  few  yards.  Then  in  a 
burst  of  confidence,  he  said,  "When  you  come  in  jus/ 


54  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

now,  I  thought  it  was  maw  dressed  up  to  fool  us.  Yes, 
sir,  I  sure  did." 

My  glimpse  of  his  septuagenarian  parent  would  not 
have  led  me  to  suspect  her  of  such  prankishness,  but 
appearances  are  often  deceitful.  For  all  I  knew  she  may 
have  been  just  the  life  of  the  family,  doubling  up  Horace 
and  his  paw  in  long  writhes  of  helpless  mirth  at  her 
impersonations.  So  I  accepted  the  compliment  silently 
and  led  our  rescuer  to  the  car. 

Once  more  I  triumphed  unworthily  over  Toby.  For 
she  had  hinted  that  my  fast  driving  had  flattened  the  tire, 
but  investigation  revealed  a  crooked  nail, — the  bane  of 
motoring  in  a  cattle  country.  Horace  proved  most 
business-like  in  handling  tools.  In  less  than  half  an  hour, 
bashfully  spurred  on  by  our  admiration,  he  had  cut  the 
lock  and  helped  us  change  the  tire.  Then  he  saw  our 
sign, — and  said  it.  As  if  it  were  a  thought  new-born  to 
the  ages,  he  smiled  at  his  own  conceit,  and  remarked, 
"You're  a  lawng  ways  from  home !" 

As  Horace  did  not  smoke,  we  drove  away  from  the 
ranch-house  eternally  in  his  debt.  We  put  him  down  to 
the  credit  of  Texas,  however,  where  he  helped  off-set 
sand-storms  and  mud  holes,  and  added  him  to  the  fast 
growing  list  of  cavaliers  who  had  rescued  us  from  our 
folly.  The  storm  had  died,  and  with  it  our  bad  luck  had 
apparently  departed,  but  when  a  day  begins  badly,  it  is 
never  safe  to  predict  until  the  car  is  bedded  down  for 
the  night.  According  to  a  bad  habit  she  has,  Toby  tele- 
scoped two  paragraphs  of  the  route  card,  skipping  the 
middle  entirely.  Consequently  we  turned  left  when  we 
should  have  gone  right, — and  found  our  front  wheels 
banked  where  a  road  had  been  playfully  altered  by  the 


"DOWN  BY  THE  RIO  GRANDE"          55 

wind  to  a  mountain  of  sand.  On  all  sides  were  waist- 
high  drifts  of  fine  white  sea  sand,  from  which  the  tops 
of  mesquite  bushes  showed.  We  could  not  turn,  so  we 
tried  running  straight  ahead, — and  stuck.  Twilight  had 
fallen,  and  if  there  were  a  way  out,  it  was  no  longer 
discernible.  At  what  seemed  a  short  half  mile,  a  light 
gleamed  from  a  house.  Once  more,  I  cravenly  went  for 
help,  while  the  optimistic  Toby  began  to  shovel  sand 
with  our  toy  shovel.  The  half  mile  trebled  itself,  and 
still  the  house  was  no  nearer.  At  last  I  came  to  the  end, 
only  to  find  that  a  wide  canal  separated  us  and  the  car 
from  the  road.  I  shouted  across  to  two  men  in  a  corral, 
and  at  last  they  heard  and  came  to  the  edge  of  the  canal 
while  I  asked  to  borrow  a  rope.  They  debated  a 
while,  perhaps  doubting  my  intentions,  but  finally  threw 
a  rope  in  the  back  of  a  little  car,  cranked  it  and,  coming 
to  the  bank  of  the  canal,  helped  me  across.  Unlike  a 
Westerner  who  when  he  leaves  a  spot  never  fails  to 
orient  himself,  I  had  not  noticed  in  which  direction  I 
had  struck  out  from  the  car.  I  fear  my  deliverers  thought 
me  a  mild  kind  of  incompetent  when  I  confessed  I  had 
no  idea  where  to  find  it:  darkness  and  sand  dunes  com- 
pletely hid  it  from  sight.  But  after  some  skirmishing 
about  canal  beds  and  bridges,  we  reached  the  broad 
shape  looming  up  in  the  dark,  and  found  that  Toby  had 
dug  the  car  out,  wrapped  an  old  tire  about  the  spinning 
back  wheel,  and  driven  it  on  firm  ground. 

Our  rescuers  put  us  on  the  road  to  our  night's  objec- 
tive, and  with  mild  patience  told  us  we  could  hardly 
miss  it,  it  being  a  straight  road  all  the  way.  They  did 
not  compliment  us  too  highly,  for  by  the  time  Venus  haci 
risen  we  reached  the  hotel,  kept  by  a  sad,  distrustful 


5  6  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

one-eyed  man  from  Maine,  who  in  spite  of  twenty  years' 
residence  still  abhorred  Texas  as  a  desert.  He  fed  us 
liberally  with  baked  beans  and  apple  pie  before  showing 
us  to  a  bare,  clean  little  room  furnished  with  a  tin  basin 
and  a  patchwork  quilt. 

We  were  nearly  dead.  We  had  much  with  which  to 
reproach  luck  and  each  other,  but  by  mutual  consent 
postponed  it  and  sank  into  peaceful  sleep  in  the  lumpy 
bed. 

As  somebody  said,  luck  is  a  fickle  dame.  Having 
flouted  us  to  her  heart's  content,  she  tagged  docilely  at 
our  heels  as  we  started  for  El  Paso  next  morning.  Two 
hundred  miles  away,  the  average  run  was  ten  hour's 
time,  but  we  made  it  in  eight  and  a  half.  The  garage- 
man's  wife's  cousin  was  a  dentist  on  Huntington  Avenue, 
and  the  extraordinary  coincidence  drew  her  to  us  almost 
as  by  the  bonds  of  kinship.  She  hurried  her  spouse  into 
mending  our  tires  promptly,  and  speeding  us  on  our 
way  with  valuable  directions.  It  was  ten  when  we  left, 
but  moving  westward  into  Rocky  Mountain  time  saved 
us  an  hour. 

Once  out  of  the  village  we  encountered  the  enveloping 
desert  again.  Driving  in  those  sandy  tracks  became  a 
new  sport, — we  learned  to  make  the  sand  skid  us  around 
corners  without  decreasing  our  speed;  we  could  calculate 
with  nicety  when  a  perceptible  drag  on  the  wheels  warned 
us  to  shift  gears.  And  then  they  must  be  shifted  in- 
stantly, for  at  a  moment's  delay  the  car  sank  deep,  and 
mischief  was  done  which  only  shoveling  could  undo.  Once 
we  found  ourselves  facing  another  car  blocking  the  road, 
and  sunk  in  thick,  unpacked  sand.  We  could  not  turn 
out.  ami  the  instant's  stop  put  us  in  a  like  predicament. 


"DOWN  BY  THE  RIO  GRANDE"          57 

They  wistfully  asked  us  to  pull  them  out,  but  as  we  were 
heavier  than  they,  and  would  have  made  two  obstacles 
instead  of  one  in  the  road,  we  had  to  refuse  the  only 
help  asked  of  us,  who  had  so  many  times  been  the  bene- 
ficiaries. We  left  them  to  an  approaching  mule  team, 
after  they  had  returned  good  for  evil  by  pushing  us  out 
of  the  sand.  For  twenty  miles  we  had  hard  going,  but 
by  spinning  through  the  sand  in  low  gear  we  escaped 
trouble. 

We  were  still  in  the  desert,  but  serrated  peaks  with 
lovely  outlines  and  stormy,  snowy  tops  marched  beside 
us  the  entire  day.  The  aspect  of  the  country  became 
semi-tropical.  The  single  varieties  of  cactus  and  century 
plants  were  increased  to  dozens.  The  ocotillo,  some- 
times wrongly  called  octopus  cactus,  waved  slender 
green  fingers,  on  which  a  red  bud  showed  like  a  rosy 
fingernail.  The  landscape  warmed  from  lifeless  gray  to 
gold,  mauve,  blue  and  deep  purple,  and  always  on  our 
left  were  the  benign  outlines  of  the  blue  Davis  Moun- 
tains. We  mounted  higher  and  higher  on  a  smooth 
orange  road  cut  through  the  mountains  and  came  out  on 
a  broad  open  highway  with  wide  vistas.  Close  by,  the 
mountains  looked  like  huge  heaps  of  black  cinder  and 
silt,  but  distance  thinned  them,  as  if  cut  from  paper,  into 
translucent  lavender  and  blue,  the  edges  luminous  from 
the  setting  sun. 

Thirty  miles  out  of  El  Paso  we  were  astonished  to 
find  ourselves  on  a  concrete  road  in  perfect  museum  con- 
dition, on  which  in  dismal  file  many  cars  crept  city-ward 
at  the  discreet  pace  of  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  It  was  the 
first  bit  of  good  road  Toby  had  encountered  for  days 
but  an  uncanny  something  in  the  self-restraint  of  the  El 


58  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

Pasans  on  the  only  good  road  in  Texas  recalled  Houston 
to  us.  We  joined  the  funereal  procession  and  arrived  in 
the  city  without  official  escort. 

Mexico  in  this  southwest  corner  is  merged  with  Texas, 
making  gay  its  vast  grayness  with  bright  spots  of  color 
and  slouching  figures,  and  suggesting  other-world  civiliza- 
tion by  its  Spanish  street  signs,  and  the  frankness  with 
which  the  Latin  welcomes  the  world  to  the  details  of 
his  daily  life.  The  outskirts  of  the  town  were  lined  with 
one  story  'dobe  huts,  and  even  more  fragile  shelters  made 
of  wattled  reeds  and  mud.  Forlorn  little  Mexican  cafes, 
with  temperance  signs  brazening  it  out  above  older  and 
more  convivial  invitations,  failed  of  their  purpose;  their 
purple  and  blue  doors  were  empty  as  the  be-Sundayed 
crowds  swarmed  the  streets. 

El  Paso  has  its  charms,  but  to  us  it  was  too  modern 
and  too  large  to  mean  more  than  a  convenient  place  to 
sleep,  shop  and  have  the  car  overhauled,  and  the  gumbo 
of  Texas,  now  caked  until  it  had  to  be  chipped  off  with  a 
chisel,  washed  from  its  surface.  "The  old  lady,"  as 
Toby  nick-named  the  car,  was  to  leave  Texas  as  she  had 
entered  it, — with  clean  skirts.  Once  more  we  viewed 
her  gray  paint,  which  we  had  not  seen  for  many  a  long 
day.  She  seemed  to  feel  the  difference  from  her  former 
draggle-tailed  state;  she  pranced  a  bit,  and  lightened  by 
several  hundred-weight  of  mud,  shied  around  corners. 
We  gave  her  her  head  as  we  passed  the  great  smelters 
on  the  western  edge  of  the  town,  whose  smoke  stacks  cloud 
the  rims  of  the  mountains  they  are  attacking,  and  slowly, 
slowly  eating  into.  A  smooth  macadam  road  led  us, — at 
last! — out  of  Texas.  We  were  not  sorry  to  leave,  hos- 
pitably as  we  had  been  treated.  Ahead  lay  greater 


"DOWN  BY  THE  RIO  GRANDE"  59 

miracles  of  nature  than  Texas  could  offer,  and  adven- 
ture no  less.  The  great  prairie  of  which  in  two  weeks 
we  had  only  nibbled  one  corner  was  behind  us.  We  were 
fairly  embarked  on  the  main  objectives  of  our  journey. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SANDSTORMS,    BANDITS    AND   DEAD    SOLDIERS 

ALONG  a  macadam  road  fringed  with  bright  painted 
little  Mexican  taverns  and  shops,  toward  mid- 
afternoon  we  threaded  our  way,  still  defenseless  "ladies," 
tempting  fate.  I  mention  what  might  seem  an  obvious 
fact,  because  the  continuance  of  our  unprotected  state 
required  strong  powers  of  resistance  against  the  offers 
of  itinerant  chauffeurs,  anxious  to  get  from  somewhere  to 
anywhere,  filled  like  ourselves  with  spring  stirrings  to- 
ward Vagabondia,  and  seeing  in  our  Red  Duchess  incon- 
sequence an  opportunity  to  get  their  itching  hands  on 
the  wheel  of  a  car  which  made  of  driving  not  a  chore  but 
an  art.  Even  garage  helpers,  who  now  humbly  washed 
wheels  and  handed  tools  to  mechanics,  hoping  to  end 
their  apprenticeship  by  a  bold  stroke,  besieged  us  with 
offers  to  chauffeur  us  for  their  expenses. 

As  we  were  leaving  El  Paso,  I  returned  to  the  car  to 
find  Toby  conversing  with  a  likely  looking  lad.  This  did 
not  surprise  me,  for  whenever  I  came  back  to  Toby  after 
five  minutes'  absence,  I  found  her  incurable  friendliness 
had  collected  from  one  to  half  a  dozen  strangers  with 
whom  she  seemed  on  intimate  terms.  But  I  was  sur- 
prised to  hear  this  lad  urging  us  to  take  him  as  chauffeur 
as  far  as  Tucson.  His  frank  face  and  pleasant  manner 
and  an  army  wound  seemed  as  good  references  as  his  offer 
of  a  bank  president's  guarantee.  He  wanted  to  go  so 

badly! 

60 


BANDITS  AND  DEAD  SOLDIERS          61 

I  have  a  failing, — one,  at  least, — of  wanting  to  live 
up  to  what  is  expected  of  me.  If  a  stranger  with  an 
expensive  gold  brick  shows  any  real  determination  to 
bestow  it  on  me  for  a  consideration,  he  always  finds  me 
eager  to  cooperate,  not  because  I  do  not  know  I  am 
being  gulled,  but  that  I  hate  to  cross  him  when  his  heart 
is  set  on  it.  Even  in  dour  Boston  it  is  congenitally  hard 
for  me  to  say  "No,"  but  in  Texas  where  people  smile 
painlessly  and  the  skies  are  molten  turquoise,  it  is  next 
to  impossible.  Of  course,  we  might  take  him  as  far  as 
Tucson.  We  would  have  to  give  up  driving,  which  we 
both  loved.  And  pay  his  expenses.  One  of  us  would 
have  to  sit  in  the  back  seat,  and  be  pulverized  by  jolting 
baggage.  Still,  it  didn't  seem  right  to  leave  our  new 
friend  at  El  Paso,  which  of  all  places  bored  him  most. 
Would  Toby  be  fair,  and  sit  among  the  baggage  half 
the  time? 

Toby,  I  saw,  was  wondering  the  same  of  me.  That 
decided  it.  Toby  loves  her  comfort.  I  started  to  say, 
"I  suppose  we  might,"  when  she  countered,  "But  we 
don't  want  any  chauffeur." 

He  looked  hopefully  at  me,  recognizing  the  weaker 
will. 

"No,"  I  said,  glad  to  agree  with  Toby,  "that  is  per- 
fectly true.  In  fact  the  whole  point  of  our  trip  is  to  see 
if  we  can  get  along  without  a  chauffeur." 

It  was  the  point;  his  wistful  smile  had  been  so  per- 
suasive that  I  had  almost  forgotten  it.  Fortunately  this 
reason  convinced  him  without  further  arguing.  He  gave 
us  directions  about  our  route,  and  we  left  him,  hat  off, 
smiling  and  waving  us  bon  voyage. 

Crossing  a  state  line  is  an  adventure  in  itself.     Even 


62  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

with  no  apparent  difference  of  landscape  there  seems 
inevitably  a  change,  if  only  the  slight  psychological  vari- 
ance reflected  by  any  country  whose  people  are  marked 
off  from  their  neighbors  by  differences  however  slight. 
The  universe  reflects  many  distinctions,  I  firmly  believe, 
so  subtle  as  to  be  undefined  by  our  five  senses,  which  we 
note  with  that  sixth  sense  finer  than  any.  Their  intan- 
gible flavor  piques  the  analyst  to  the  nice  game  of  de- 
scription. Hardly  had  we  crossed  the  political  line  divid- 
ing sand  and  sage  brush  from  sage  brush  and  sand  before 
we  sensed  New  Mexico; — a  new  wildness,  a  hint  of  law- 
lessness, a  decade  nearer  the  frontier,  Old  Spain 
enameled  on  the  wilderness. 

Or  perhaps  it  was  only  Mrs.  Flanagan,  with  her  Mexi- 
can face  and  Irish  brogue,  when  we  stopped  to  buy  gas, 
whose  longing  to  have  us  for  guests  at  her  hotel  made 
her  paint  the  dangers  of  New  Mexico  with  Hibernian 
fluency  and  Iberian  guile.  She  thickened  the  coming 
twilight  with  sand  storms,  bandit  shapes  and  murders. 

"Do  ye  know  what  a  sandstor'rm  is  in  these  parts? 
Ye  do  not!  I  thought  not!  Last  month  a  car  left  here 
to  cross  the  desert  to  Deming,  as  ye're  doing.  Late 
afternoon  it  was, — just  this  hour,  the  wind  in  the  same 
place.  I  war'rned  thim  to  stay,  but  they  w'd  be  gettin' 
along, — like  yourselves." 

"And  what  became  of  them?" 

She  gave  us  a  look  that  froze  the  blood  in  our  veins, 
despite  the  scorching  wind  from  the  edge  of  the  desert. 

"Yes,  what  did  become  av  thim?  That's  what  many 
would  like  to  know.  They  have  not  been  heard  of  since!" 

"You  would  advise  us  to  stay  here  for  the  night, 
then?" 


BANDITS  AND  DEAD  SOLDIERS          63 

"Suit  yourselves,  suit  yourselves.  I  see  your  rad-ay- 
tor's  leakin'.  Tis  a  serious  thing  to  get  out  in  that 
desert,  miles  fr'm  anywhere  wid  an  impty  rad-ayator. 
What  could  ye  do,  an'  night  comin'  on?  Ye're  hilpless! 
An'  suppose  ye  get  lost?  The  road's  not  marked.  'Tis 
a  mass  of  criss-cross  tracks  leadin'  iverywhere.  At  best, 
ye'd  have  to  stop  where  ye  are  till  mornin',  if  ye  don't 
git  too  far  lost  ever  t'  find  y'rselves  again." 

Here  entered  a  Gentleman  from  Philadelphia,  a 
traveler  for  Quaker  Oats,  who  listened  to  our  debate 
with  great  interest.  He  was  a  brisk  and  businesslike 
young  man,  with  a  friendly  brown  eye  and  a  brotherly 


manner. 

u 


If  you  ask  met  Mrs.  Flanagan,"  he  began  diplomati- 
cally, "I'd  advise  the  young  ladies  to  take  a  chance.  I 
think  they  can  make  it." 

Something  in  this  advice,  slightly  stressed,  implied  a 
warning.  Mrs.  Flanagan  with  her  swarthy  Mexican 
features  was  not  the  most  prepossessing  landlady  in  the 
world,  nor  did  a  lonely  roadhouse  on  the  edge  of  the 
desert,  with  no  other  guests  than  ourselves,  promise  com- 
plete security.  Tales  of  Swiss  inns,  and  trap-doors 
yawning  at  midnight  came  to  me,  faintly  conveyed  by  the 
young  man's  tones.  She  turned  on  him  with  ill-concealed 
anger. 

"It's  nothin'  to  me,  go  or  stay.  But  here's  a  good 
hotel, — with  a  bath-room,  even, — and  there's  night,  and 
sandy  roads,  and  a  stor'rm  comin'.  If  ye  had  a  man 
wid  ye,  I'd  say  'go  on,'  though  it's  not  safe,  even  f'r  a 
man.  But  bein'  two  ladies,  I  say  stop  here." 

We  wavered,  anxious  to  get  on,  but  not  to  meet  a 


64  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

violent  end.  On  the  pretext  of  filling  our  water-bag,  the 
Gentleman  from  Philadelphia  took  us  aside. 

"Don't  let  Mrs.  Flanagan  fool  you,"  he  advised. 
"She  only  wants  customers.  I  stayed  here  once,"  he 
twitched  nervously, — "and  I'd  rather  run  the  chance  of 
being  robbed  and  murdered.  Not  that  I  think  that  will 
happen  to  you." 

So  we  thanked  him,  nice  brisk,  friendly  young  man 
that  he  was,  taking  care  not  to  incriminate  him  before 
the  watchful  Mrs.  Flanagan,  and  bade  that  lady  adieu. 
She  gloomily  wished  us  good  luck,  but  it  was  apparently 
more  than  she  dared  hope. 

"Only  last  week,  two  men  were  held  up  and  murdered 
by  the  Mexicans,"  she  called  after  us.  "Watch  out  for 
thim  Mexicans, — they're  a  wicked  bad  lot." 

With  the  sky  yellow-green  from  the  gathering  sand- 
storm, night  coming  on  fast  and  her  warning  in  our  ears 
we  struck  out  into  our  first  desert  with  a  sense  of  uneasi- 
ness, exhilarated  a  little  by  the  warm  beauty  of  the  eve- 
ning. We  seemed  to  have  left  all  civilization  behind, 
although  after  passing  the  last  hamlet  about  nightfall, 
we  had  only  forty-odd  miles  more  to  go.  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  eerie  charm  of  that  drive.  We  saw  not  a 
soul.  Occasionally  a  jack  rabbit,  startled  as  ourselves, 
leaped  athwart  the  gleam  of  our  lamps.  Sometimes  we 
wandered,  in  the  pitchy  black,  from  the  guiding  Southern 
Pacific  into  a  maze  of  twisting  trails.  Sometimes  we 
dived  into  a  sudden  arroyo,  wrenching  the  car  about  just 
in  time  to  stay  with  the  road  as  it  serpentined  out  again. 
When,  now  and  again,  a  lonely  light  far  off  suggested  a 
lurking  bandit,  we  remembered  with  a  homesick  twinge 
the  last  words  of  Toby's  mother,  and  wondered  when  we 


BANDITS  AND  DEAD  SOLDIERS         65 

should  get  a  chance  to  obey  them.  At  four  cross  roads, 
the  only  guide  post  lay  flat  midway  between  the  roads. 
We  were  obliged  to  guess  at  the  most  likely  route.  At 
last  we  came  on  the  lights  of  Deming,  five  miles  away, 
in  the  valley.  We  sighed  with  relief  and  moved  toward 
them  rapidly. 

And  then  a  figure  stepped  out  from  a  truck  blocked 
beside  the  road,  and  a  deep  voice  called  "Stop  a  moment, 
please!" 

At  that  moment  we  sincerely  wished  ourselves  back  in 
Mrs.  Flanagan's  road  house.  Then,  before  Toby  could 
get  out  the  monkey  wrench  which  was  our  sole  weapon 
of  defense,  the  voice  changed  shrilly  on  a  high  note,  and 
we  saw  our  bandit  was  a  fourteen  year  old  boy.  He 
hopped  aboard,  never  dreaming  of  the  panic  he  had 
caused  our  bandit-beset  minds,  explaining  that  his  bat- 
teries were  out  of  order,  and  he  must  return  to  Deming. 
He  added,  naively,  that  his  father  owned  the  second  best 
hotel  in  town,  which  he  recommended  if  we  failed  to 
find  a  room  in  the  best  hotel.  Then  he  swung  off  the 
car,  and  we  went  on  to  the  Mecca  of  all  Western 
voyagers, — a  clean  room,  a  hot  bath,  and  a  Harvey 
eating  house. 

Like  all  of  the  Southwest,  Deming  was  in  the  midst 
of  an  oil  boom.  Beneath  the  arid  sand  and  cactus  of 
long  unwanted  acreage,  rich  sluggish  pools  were  in  hid- 
ing, arousing  the  old  gambling  spirit  of  the  West.  It 
was  a  timid  soul  indeed  who  had  not  invested  in  at  least 
one  well.  In  newspaper  offices  we  saw  the  day's  quota- 
tions chalked  on  blackboards,  and  in  the  windows  of  real 
estate  agents  were  greeted  by  imposing  sketches  of  Dem- 
ing Twenty  Years  from  Now;  no  longer  half  a  dozen 


66  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

streets  completely  surrounded  by  whirling  sand,  but  a 
city  of  oil  shafts  and  sky  scrapers.  We  dropped  into  a 
hairdresser's  to  be  rid  of  the  desert  dust,  and  found  a 
group  of  ladies  as  busily  discussing  oil  as  were  their  hus- 
bands at  the  barber's. 

"Jim  and  I  had  five  hundred  dollars  saved  toward  a 
house,"  confided  one  gray-haired  gambler,  "so  we  bought 
Bear  Cat  at  a  cent  a  share.  If  it  goes  to  a  dollar,  like 
the  land  next  it,  we've  got  fifty  thousand.  If  it  don't, 
why,  what  can  you  get  with  five  hundred  anyway,  these 
days?" 

"Way  I  do  is  to  buy  some  of  everything,"  said  the 
hairdresser,  rubbing  the  lather  into  my  scalp.  "Then 
you're  sure  to  hit  it  right.  I  got  a  claim  out  to  Stein's, 
and  they're  striking  oil  all  around.  When  they  find  it 
on  my  claim," — (it  is  always  "when,"  never  "if") — I'm 
going  to  have  a  rope  of  pearls  to  my  waist,  and  a  Colonial 
Adobe  house, — twenty  rooms  and  a  dance  hall." 

We  left  the  little  town,  hideous  in  its  barrenness  and 
dreaming  of  its  future,  the  waitresses  chewing  the  in- 
evitable toothpick,  the  two  motion  picture  houses,  the 
sandstorms,  and  the  railway  with  its  transcontinental 
standards,  and  hastened  through  to  Arizona,  leaving  a 
more  thorough  inspection  of  New  Mexico  for  spring. 
At  the  garage,  we  had  one  word  of  advice  from  a 
weather  beaten  old-timer,  of  whom  we  inquired  as  to 
roads. 

"The  w'ust  trouble  ye'll  have  in  a  prohibition  state  is 
tire  trouble." 

"Why  should  prohibition  affect  our  tires?" 

"Dead  soldiers." 

"Dead  soldiers?" 


BANDITS  AND  DEAD  SOLDIERS         67 

"Empty  whiskey  bottles." 

When  we  looked  back  half  a  mile  down  the  road,  he 
was  still  laughing  at  his  wit.  What  would  have  hap- 
pened if  the  really  good  one  about  our  being  a  long  way 
from  home  had  occurred  to  him  I  cannot  picture. 

Two  routes  offered  for  Tucson ;  the  short  cut  through 
Lordsburg  and  Willcox,  and  the  longer  way  by  Douglas 
and  the  Mexican  border.  When  we  inquired  which  route 
would  have  more  interesting  scenery,  we  had  met  invari- 
ably with  a  stare  and  a  laugh. 

"Not  much  scenery,  wherever  you  go, — sand  and 
cactus !  Just  as  much  on  one  road  as  another.11 

We  therefore  chose  the  shorter  way,  to  learn  later 
that  the  Douglas-Bisbee  route  which  we  discarded  was 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  drives  in  the  country.  Yet  we 
ourselves  moved  into  a  theater  of  loveliness.  Saw- 
toothed  ranges,  high  and  stormy,  snow-topped,  shadowed 
our  trail.  The  wide  amphitheater  of  our  golden  valley 
was  encircled  with  mountains  of  every  size  and  color; 
blue,  rosy,  purple,  and  at  sunset  pure  gold  and  trans- 
parently radiant.  The  gray  sage  turned  at  sun-down  to 
lavender;  mauve  shadows  lengthened  on  the  desert 
floor;  gorges  of  angry  orange  and  red  cliffs  gave  savage 
contrast  to  the  delicate  Alpine  glow  lighting  white  peaks; 
a  cold,  pastel  sky  framed  a  solitary  star,  and  frosty  air, 
thinned  in  its  half-mile  height  to  a  stimulating  sharp- 
ness, woke  us  keenly  to  life.  We  felt  the  enchantment 
that  Arizona  weaves  from  her  gray  cocoon  toward  sun- 
set, and  wondered  at  eyes  which  could  look  on  it  all,  and 
see  only  sand  and  cactus.  Show  them  the  unaccustomed, 
and  they  would  doubtless  have  been  appreciative  enough. 
A  green  New  England  farm  with  running  brooks  and 


68  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

blossoming  orchards  would  have  spelled  Paradise  to 
them,  as  this  Persian  pattern  of  desert  did  to  us ;  beauty 
to  the  parched  native  of  Arizona  is  an  irrigation  ditch, 
bordered  by  emerald  cottonwoods. 

If  I  tint  these  pages  with  too  many  sunsets,  it  is  not 
from  unawareness  of  my  weakness,  but  because  without 
them  a  description  of  Arizona  does  not  describe.  In 
the  afternoon  hours,  between  four  and  eight,  the  country 
wakes  and  glows,  and  has  its  moment,  like  a  woman 
whose  youth  was  plain  but  whom  middle  age  has  touched 
with  charm  and  mystery.  Not  to  speak  of  the  sunsets  of 
Arizona,  till  the  reader  is  as  saturated  with  their  glory 
as  is  the  traveler,  is  to  leave  the  heart  of  the  country 
unrevealed. 

From  Willcox  to  Lordsburg  we  realized  there  was 
more  than  jest  in  the  remark  of  our  old-timer  concerning 
"dead  soldiers."  All  the  way  through  that  uninhabited 
desert,  we  picked  our  road  through  avenues  of  dis- 
carded flat  bottles  of  familiar  shape,  turning  all  shades 
of  amethyst  under  the  burning  rays  of  the  sun.  It  is  an 
odd  effect  of  the  sun  on  glass  here  in  the  desert  that  it 
slowly  turns  a  deeper  and  deeper  violet.  The  desert- 
wise  can  tell  the  date  a  bottle  was  discarded  from  its  hue. 
I  was  told  that  one  man  made  a  fortune  by  ripening 
window-glass  in  this  manner,  and  selling  it  to  opticians 
at  a  fancy  price.  It  may  have  been  a  similar  industry 
which  lined  our  path  with  empty  bottles.  It  must  have 
been  so,  for  Arizona  had  been  "dry"  for  three  years. 

Even  the  lakes  were  dry.  When  we  met  with  the 
term  "dry  lake"  in  the  guide  book,  we  set  it  down  as 
another  flight  of  the  fanciful  creature  who  had  composed 
its  pages,  but  soon  we  came  upon  it.  Four  miles  and 


BANDITS  AND  DEAD  SOLDIERS         69 

more  we  drove  over  the  bottom  of  a  lake  now  not  even 
damp,  making  deep  tracks  in  the  white  sand.  Dry  rivers 
were  later  to  become  commonplace,  but  we  were  children 
of  Israel  but  this  once.  Suddenly  beyond  us  in  the 
distance,  through  a  heat  where  no  drop  of  water  could 
live,  we  saw  a  sparkle  and  a  shimmer  of  cool  blue,  and 
cottonwoods  reflected  in  wet,  wavering  lines.  Our  dry 
lake  had  turned  wet!  Mountain  peaks  rose  and  floated 
on  its  surface, — and  not  till  they  melted  and  skipped 
about  could  I  believe  Toby's  assertion  that  we  were  gaz- 
ing on  a  mirage.  When  she  focussed  her  camera  upon 
the  mirage  I  scoffed  loudly.  Tales  of  travelers  in  the 
desert  had  early  rooted  in  my  none  too  scientific  mind 
the  idea  that  a  mirage  is  a  subconscious  desire  visually 
projected,  like  the  rootless  vines,  which  climb  the  air  at 
the  command  of  Hindu  fakirs.  When  our  finished  print 
showed  a  definite,  if  faint,  outline  of  non-existent  hills, 
my  little  world  was  slightly  less  shaken  than  if  Toby  had 
produced  a  photograph  of  an  astral  wanderer  from  the 
spirit  world.  I  do  not  like  to  look  at  it.  It  seems  like 
black  magic. 

The  desert,  bleached  dazzling  white  under  an  after- 
noon sun,  seemed  shorn  of  all  the  mysteries  and  appre- 
hensions with  which  the  previous  night  and  Mrs.  Flanagan 
had  enveloped  it.  Now  it  lay  stark  and  unromantic, 
colorless  in  a  blare  of  heat.  We  were  only  a  few  miles 
from  Tucson,  when  we  mounted  a  hill,  and  poised  a 
second,  looking  down  on  a  horseshoe  canyon.  Our  road, 
narrow  and  stony,  threaded  the  edge  of  it, — a  sharp 
down  grade,  a  quick  curve  at  the  base,  and  a  steady 
climb  up.  As  we  turned  the  brow  of  the  hill  and  passed 
a  clump  of  trees  hiding  the  view  of  the  bottom,  ahead, 


70  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

directly  across  the  road  and  blocking  all  passage  stood 
a  car.  I  put  on  the  brakes  sharply,  and  our  car  veered 
toward  the  edge  and  wavered.  How  stupid  to  leave  a 
car  directly  across  a  dangerous  road  on  a  down  grade ! 
This  was  my  first  reaction.  Then  we  saw  two  men,  with 
the  slouch  that  marks  the  Westerner,  step  from  behind 
their  car,  and  await  our  approach.  Even  while  I  con- 
centrated on  avoiding  turning  into  the  ditch,  their  very 
quiet  manner  as  they  awaited  us  arrested  attention.  It 
was  not  stupidity  which  made  them  choose  to  alight  at 
that  spot.  It  was  an  ideally  clever  place  for  a  hold-up ! 
Concealed  itself,  it  commanded  a  view  of  the  entire 
canyon,  and  would  catch  a  car  coming  from  either  direc- 
tion at  lowered  speed.  These  men  were  not  waiting  our 
approach  for  any  casual  purpose ;  something  too  guarded 
and  watchful,  too  tensely  alert,  lay  taut  beneath  their 
easy  slouch.  The  elder,  a  bearded  thick-set  man,  care- 
lessly held  his  hand  on  his  hip  pocket,  as  they  do  in  all 
Western  novels.  The  taller  and  younger  man  stepped 
into  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  raised  a  hand  to  stop  us. 

"Toby,"  I  said  in  a  low  voice,  "this  looks  serious." 

"Bandits !"  said  Toby,  her  tone  confirming  my  sus- 
picions. 

"Get  out  the  monkey  wrench,  and  point  it  as  if  it  were 
a  gun.  I'll  try  to  crowd  past  the  car  and  up  the  hill." 

"If  we  only  had  the  ammonia  pistol,"  sighed  Toby, 
murderously,  getting  the  wrench  and  cocking  it. 

A  gentle  voice  tinged  with  the  sharp  edge  of  com- 
mand came  from  the  younger  man.  "Better  stop  a 
minute,  lady!" 

We  stopped,  entirely  contrary  to  our  hastily  made 
plans.  Something  in  his  level  tone,  and  in  a  quick  little 


BANDITS  AND  DEAD  SOLDIERS          71 

gesture  the  man  behind  him  made,  changed  our  minds. 

Without  removing  his  hand  from  his  hip  the  other 
man,  who  I  quickly  decided  was  the  more  desperate 
character  of  the  two,  strolled  about  our  car  with  an 
appraising  and  well  satisfied  look.  At  that  moment  we 
felt  we  were  indeed  a  long,  long  ways  from  home.  I 
began  to  calculate  the  time  it  would  take  to  walk  to 
Tucson, — hampered,  possibly,  by  a  bullet  wound.  Then 
he  pulled  open  his  coat,  and  a  gleam  of  metal  caught  the 
sunlight. 

"I'm  the  sheriff  of  Pima  County,"  he  said,  briefly. 

I  did  not  believe  him.  I  put  my  foot  on  the  gas,  and 
tightened  my  grip  on  the  wheel,  measuring  the  road 
ahead  and  calculating  the  slight  chance  of  crowding  past 
his  car  and  up  the  steep  hill  ahead. 

uPlease  show  us  your  badge  again,  if  you  don't  mind." 

He  gave  us  a  full  view  of  it  this  time.  It  looked 
genuine  enough, — a  silver  star,  not  quite  so  large  as  the 
planet  Jupiter,  with  rays  darting  therefrom,  and  Pima 
printed  on  it  in  bold  letters, — a  staggering  affair,  calcu- 
lated to  inspire  respect  for  law  and  order. 

"Were  we  speeding?"  Toby  faltered,  remembering 
Houston. 

"We're  making  a  little  search,"  he  replied  very 
crisply. 

"Search,— for  what?" 

"Booze,  for  one  thing,"  said  the  lank  young  man. 
The  other  did  not  waste  words. 

It  was  evident  from  their  manner  they  expected  to 
find  what  they  were  hunting  for.  They  walked  about 
and  punched  our  tires,  darkly  suspicious.  We  could  not 
have  felt  more  guilty  if  we  had  been  concealing  the 


72  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

entire  annual  output  of  Peoria.    I.  heard  Toby  gasp,  and 
knew  she  was  wondering  what  Brattle  St.  would  say. 

"Where  did  you  come  from?"  asked  the  sheriff. 

"Benson,"  we  replied,  mentioning  the  last  town  we 
had  passed  through. 

"Ah!"  Evidently  a  highly  incriminating  place  to 
come  from.  They  proceeded  to  examine  our  suit-cases 
thoroughly. 

"I  hate  to  search  ladies,"  said  the  sheriff,  in  brief 
apology,  "but  if  ladies  will  smuggle  booze  into  Pima 
County,  it  has  to  be  done." 

At  that  moment  his  assistant  caught  sight  of  our 
knobby  looking  auto  trunk. 

"Ah!"  Such  a  queer  shaped  trunk  was  beyond  ex- 
planation. I  handed  over  the  keys  in  silence.  They 
made  a  grim  search,  with  no  sign  of  unbending  until 
they  came  to  our  funny  little  folding  stove.  Then  the 
sheriff  permitted  a  short  smile  to  decorate  his  official 
expression,  and  I  knew  the  worst  was  over.  A  moment 
later,  the  lank  young  man  discovered  our  number-plate. 

"Say!     Are  you  from  Massachusetts,  lady?" 

"Boston." 

I  pass  over  his  next  remark.  The  reader  has  heard  it 
before,  and  so  had  we.  The  air  was  cleared,  and  so 
were  we.  To  the  sheriff  of  Pima  County  and  his  deputy, 
Boston  meant  only  Susan  B.  Anthony  and  Frances  E. 
Willard.  They  had  evidently  never  heard  of  Ward 
Eight. 

We  passed  on,  amid  apologies,  to  Tucson.  Once 
more  the  spectres  evoked  by  Mrs.  Flanagan  had  been 
laid.  Artistically,  it  was  a  pity.  The  canyon  made  a 


BANDITS  AND  DEAD  SOLDIERS         73 

perfect  setting  for  a  hold-up.     As  such  I  recommend  it 
to  the  outlaws  of  Pima  County. 

As  we  drove  into  the  city,  acquitted  of  boot-legging,  a 
wonderful  odor  stole  to  our  nostrils.  We  sniffed,  looked 
at  each  other  and  sniffed  again.  We  were  entering  Tuc- 
son on  the  historic  afternoon  when  sixty  thousand  dollars 
worth  of  liquor  had  been  poured  relentlessly  into  the 
gutters  of  the  old  town, — a  town  which  a  generation 
ago  had  stood  for  wild  drinking  and  picturesque  law- 
lessness. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TUCSON 

¥  li  THAT  school  child  reading  of  the  Pilgrims'  land- 
V  V  ing,  of  Montcalm's  Defeat,  and  the  Revolution- 
ary War,  but  thinks  he  is  learning  the  whole  of  Amer- 
ica's colonial  history?  Studying  from  text-books  east- 
ern professors  wrote  about  the  time  when  the  Missis- 
sippi held  back  the  lurking  savage,  he  skips  over  the  brief 
mention  of  Coronado  and  Cortez  as  of  sporadic  ex- 
plorers who  kindly  lessened  home  work  by  changing  the 
map  as  little  as  possible.  He  reads  of  Independence 
Hall  in  Philadelphia,  and  Faneuil  Hall  in  Boston,  and 
the  Old  South  Church.  Yet  in  the  land  of  Coronado, 
the  uncharted  wilderness  his  mind  pictures,  rise  the  white 
turrets  and  dome  of  a  Mission  beside  which  the  Old 
South  is  as  ordinary  as  a  country  Audrey  compared  with 
a  lady  of  St.  James'  court.  Who  of  his  elders  can  blame 
him,  who  pride  themselves  on  their  familiarity  with  the 
cloisters  of  San  Marcos  and  Bruges,  Chartres  and  the 
ruined  giant  Rheims,  and  have  heard  vaguely  or  not  at 
all,  of  the  pearl  set  by  devout  Spaniards  against  the  blue 
enamel  sky  of  Arizona  and  dedicated  to  San  Xavier? 

As  it  lies  relaxed  on  the  tinted  desert  carpet,  dome  and 
tower  so  light  that  they  seem  great  white  balloons,  kept 
from  floating  away  into  the  vivid  sky  by  substantial 
anchors  of  buttress  and  arch,  compare  it  with  the  neat 
smugness  of  our  Bulfinch  and  Georgian  meeting-houses 
in  New  England.  Even  at  its  best,  the  latter  style  has 

74 


TUCSON  75 

the  prim  daintiness  of  an  exquisite  maiden  lady,  while 
the  Mission  is  like  the  Sleeping  Beauty,  with  white  arm 
curved  above  her  head,  relaxed  and  dreaming.  Without 
claiming  to  speak  with  authority,  I  consider  San  Xavier 
the  loveliest  ecclesiastical  building  in  America.  Cer- 
tainly its  obscurity  should  be  broken  more  frequently 
than  now  by  pilgrimages,  its  outlines  as  familiar  in  school 
histories  as  Independence  Hall  or  Washington  Crossing 
the  Delaware. 

In  its  fashion  this  mission  personifies  a  sort  of  Inde- 
pendence Hall  of  the  first  Americans, — the  Papagoes, 
who  might  be  termed  Red  Quakers.  Founded  in  1687 
by  Father  Kino,  a  Jesuit  priest  of  the  royal  house  of 
Bavaria,  the  original  mission  suffered  from  Indian  re- 
bellions, Apache  massacres,  and  the  expulsion  of  the 
Jesuits.  Abandoned  for  awhile,  it  fell  a  century  later  to 
the  Franciscans,  who  erected  the  present  building,  which 
represents  the  almost  single-handed  conquest  by  some 
eighteenth  century  padre  of  engineering  difficulties  which 
might  well  baffle  a  Technology  graduate.  It  became  the 
Rheims  of  the  Papagoes,  Christians,  in  their  peculiarly 
pantheistic  fashion,  since  the  advent  of  Father  Kino. 
Mildest  of  all  Indians,  in  their  whole  history  they  went 
on  the  war-path  but  once, — after  hostile  Apaches  had 
thrice  desecrated  their  loved  San  Xavier  and  murdered  its 
priests.  The  Apaches  never  returned. 

Nine  miles  from  Tucson,  on  a  wide  plain  which  the 
Santa  Rita  mountains  guard,  the  Mission  lies  cloistered, 
exquisite  souvenir  of  the  Moors  and  Spaniards,  its  arched 
gateway  a  legacy  from  Arabia.  Little  Papago  huts  of 
wattled  reeds  and  mud,  scarcely  different  in  construction 
from  prehistoric  cliff-dwellings,  lie  scattered  over  the 


76  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

plain.  Out  in  the  sunshine,  Papagoes  in  blue  overalls 
and  brilliant  bandas  mended  tools  or  drove  a  primitive 
plow,  and  the  women  caught  the  wind  and  the  light  in 
billowing  scarves  of  purple,  green  and  red.  They  smiled 
broadly  and  sheepishly  at  us,  proudly  exhibiting  blinking, 
velvet-eyed  progeny  in  wicker  cradles,  who  bore  such 
good  Catholic  names  as  Clara,  Juan,  Madelina.  Some 
women  were  busy  covering  reeds  with  split  yucca  fiber, 
intertwined  with  the  black  of  the  devil's  claw,  a  vicious 
curving  seed-pod  which  more  than  once  had  clamped 
about  our  feet  in  our  desert  travel.  Others  baked  round 
loaves  in  rude  outdoor  ovens  of  mud.  Across  the  plains, 
sheep  grazed,  and  an  occasional  horse:  the  omnipresent 
mongrel  beloved  of  the  Indian  snarled  and  yapped  as  we 
drove  to  the  Mission  doorway. 

Here  we  stepped  into  another  world.  An  Irish 
Mother  Superior  welcomed  us,  her  soft  brogue  tem- 
pered to  the  hushed  stillness  within,  and  offered  us  trays 
of  cold  milk.  Hers  was  the  mellow  presence  which  long 
ripening  in  cloisters  sometimes, — not  always — brings. 
Walls  four  feet  thick  shut  out  the  yellow  sunlight,  save 
where  it  fell  in  dappled  patterns  on  the  flags,  or  filtered 
through  green  vines  covering  open  arches. 

The  central  dome  of  the  mission  roofs  the  nave  of  the 
church.  Inside,  it  lights  the  obscurity  with  a  rich  gleam 
of  gold  leaf,  put  on  with  barbaric  lavishness.  Paintings 
and  frescoes  of  Biblical  stories  add  to  the  ornate  effect; 
painted-faced  Holy  Families  in  gauze  and  lace  stare 
from  their  niches  unsurprised;  two  great  carved  lions  of 
Castile,  brought  in  sections  from  Old  Spain,  guard  the 
altar  treasures.  Rightly  did  the  Jesuits  and  Franciscans 
gage  the  psychology  of  their  dusky  converts.  Never 


Lin 
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TUCSON  77 

ing  the  old  religion,  but  grafting  to  it  the  vigor- 
3ts  of  the  new,  they  made  it  appeal  to  the  In- 
>ve  of  pomp  and  color.  Pictorial  representations 
lints  bridged  the  gap  between  the  two  languages, 

glitter  of  the  decadent  Renaissance  style  was 
he  brighter  to  attract  the  curious  minds  of  the 
dren.  At  least  two  artists  of  some  gifts  deco- 
e  nave,  for  two  styles  are  apparent.  One  artist 
rly  unimaginative  and  conventional;  the  other 
with  a  daintier  flourish  his  flying  angels,  who 
out  in  their  curly  ribbons  with  a  Peruginian  ele- 
linting  too,  in  their  fragility,  of  the  more  perfect 
s  of  Fra  Angelico.  Certainly,  this  latter  artist 
>uch,  but  who  he  was  or  what  he  did  so  far  from 
lios  which  trained  him,  I  do  not  think  is  known. 
Vlother  Superior  led  us  out  of  the  church  and  into 
rtyard  flanked  by  what  were  once  cells  for  the 

monks,  and  are  now  schoolrooms  for  young 
es,  intoning  lessons  to  a  sharp-faced  nun.  At  the 
he  court  a  graceful  gateway,  triple-arched,  harked 
;ain  to  Old  Spain,  and  thence  more  remotely  to 

for  it  is  a  copy  of  the  "camel  gates,"  which  at 
losed  their  middle  arch,  and  left  tardily  arriving 
rains  to  crawl  through  side  openings.  It  is  a  far 
m  Arabia  to  Arizona,  yet  there  are  camels  in 
i,  too,  according  to  a  creditable  account.  But 
ry  belongs  elsewhere. 

ted  through  low  white  arches  of  the  courtyard 
against  which  clusters  of  china  berries  make 
:  splashes  of  color,  are  exquisite  pictures  of  eme- 
een  pastures  leading  out  to  white  topped  crests. 
1  sunset  these  peaks  turn  rosy,  then  red;  the 


TUCSON  77 

eliminating  the  old  religion,  but  grafting  to  it  the  vigor- 
ous shoots  of  the  new,  they  made  it  appeal  to  the  In- 
dian's love  of  pomp  and  color.  Pictorial  representations 
of  the  saints  bridged  the  gap  between  the  two  languages, 
and  the  glitter  of  the  decadent  Renaissance  style  was 
gilded  the  brighter  to  attract  the  curious  minds  of  the 
red  children.  At  least  two  artists  of  some  gifts  deco- 
rated the  nave,  for  two  styles  are  apparent.  One  artist 
was  fairly  unimaginative  and  conventional;  the  other 
painted  with  a  daintier  flourish  his  flying  angels,  who 
float  about  in  their  curly  ribbons  with  a  Peruginian  ele- 
gance, hinting  too,  in  their  fragility,  of  the  more  perfect 
creatures  of  Fra  Angelico.  Certainly,  this  latter  artist 
had  a  touch,  but  who  he  was  or  what  he  did  so  far  from 
the  studios  which  trained  him,  I  do  not  think  is  known. 

The  Mother  Superior  led  us  out  of  the  church  and  into 
the  courtyard  flanked  by  what  were  once  cells  for  the 
resident  monks,  and  are  now  schoolrooms  for  young 
Papagoes,  intoning  lessons  to  a  sharp-faced  nun.  At  the 
end  of  the  court  a  graceful  gateway,  triple-arched,  harked 
back  again  to  Old  Spain,  and  thence  more  remotely  to 
Arabia,  for  it  is  a  copy  of  the  "camel  gates,"  which  at 
sunset  closed  their  middle  arch,  and  left  tardily  arriving 
camel  trains  to  crawl  through  side  openings.  It  is  a  far 
cry  from  Arabia  to  Arizona,  yet  there  are  camels  in 
Arizona,  too,  according  to  a  creditable  account.  But 
that  story  belongs  elsewhere. 

Framed  through  low  white  arches  of  the  courtyard 
walls,  against  which  clusters  of  china  berries  make 
brilliant  splashes  of  color,  are  exquisite  pictures  of  eme- 
rald green  pastures  leading  out  to  white  topped  crests. 
Toward  sunset  these  peaks  turn  rosy,  then  red;  the 


78  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

somber,  barren  hills  below  them  become  deep  purple, 
then  chilly  blue.  Over  the  plain,  mingling  with  the 
tinkle  of  sheep  bells  float  the  silver  notes  of  the  chimes 
brought  from  Old  Spain,  and  little  by  little  darkness 
falls,  and  the  fluttering  veils  of  the  Papago  women 
vanish  from  the  scene. 

Tucson  is  perhaps  the  most  liveable  town  in  Arizona. 
It  boasts  several  good  hotels,  macadam  boulevards,  a 
railway  station  so  attractively  designed  and  placed  it 
might  be  taken  for  a  museum  or  library,  an  embryo  sub- 
way, and  a  university.  The  last  may  account  for  an 
atmosphere  of  culture  not  perhaps  remarkable  in  the 
West,  yet  not  always  found  in  a  provincial  town  of  the 
size. 

The  University  of  Arizona  is  situated  in  the  newer 
part  of  the  town.  Its  buildings  are  of  classic  architec- 
ture, well  proportioned,  their  simple,  dignified  lines  suited 
to  the  exuberance  of  nature  surrounding  them.  Still 
new,  its  landscape  gardening  has  been  happily  planned 
in  a  country  which  aided  the  gardener  rapidly  to  achieve 
his  softening  effect.  The  grounds  boast  two  attractions 
Northern  colleges  must  forego,  an  outdoor  swimming 
pool  and  a  cactus  garden,  in  which  all  known  varieties  of 
cactus  grown  in  the  state  are  found.  The  University 
necessarily  lacks  some  advantages  of  older  colleges,  but 
it  owns  a  rare  collection  of  Indian  basketry  and  pottery. 
The  well-known  archeologist,  Prof.  Byron  Cummings, 
who  was  the  first  white  man  to  behold  the  Rainbow 
Bridge  in  Utah,  in  winter  has  the  chair  of  archeology, 
and  in  summer  leads  classes  through  the  cliff  dwellings 
and  prehistoric  ruins  which  stud  the  Four  Corners  of  the 
United  States. 


DOORWAY  OF  SAN  XAVIER  DEL  BAG,  TUCSON. 


TUCSON  79 

The  old  part  of  the  town,  where  lived  the  "first  fami- 
lies" who  settled  the  district  when  the  Apaches  raided, 
and  the  "bad  man"  frequented  saloons,  and  made  shoot- 
ings and  lynchings  common  in  the  sixties  and  seventies, 
has  lost  many  of  its  thick-walled,  verandahed  houses  in 
the  face  of  the  builder's  fervor  for  bungalows.  The 
inhabitants  who  remember  picturesque  and  bloody  tales 
of  the  frontier  days,  and  even  participated  in  them,  are 
still  in  hale  middle  age. 

Viewing  the  electric  lights,  the  neat  and  charmingly 
designed  bungalows,  the  tramways  and  excellent  ga- 
rages, the  cretonne  lined  coupes,  Toby  and  I  decided  we 
had  discovered  the  West  too  late.  We  had  before  us 
only  a  denatured  California,  and  were,  indeed,  feelingly 
reminded  of  that  fact  by  the  increasing  numbers  of 
Native  Sons  we  encountered.  Some  of  the  benefits  long 
enjoyed  by  the  Golden  State  have  seeped  across  the 
boundaries,  and  Arizona  has  become  canny,  and  in  the 
health  resort  zone  which  embraces  Tucson  has  learned 
to  add  in  the  climate  at  the  top  of  every  bill.  But 
Arizona's  boom  is  but  a  feeble  pipe  when  a  real  Native 
Son  begins.  Some  of  these  have,  for  unknown  reasons, 
migrated  to  Arizona,  and  whenever  such  an  individual, 
male  or  female,  saw  our  sign,  after  the  customary  greet- 
ing, he  opened  fire,  "On  your  way  to  California?" 

"No." 

Following  blank  astonishment,  "No?" 

"No." 

Recovery,  "Oh, — just  come  from  there?" 

"No." 

"No?" 

"No." 


8o 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


"And  you're  not  going  to  California?" 
"No.'! 

"Why  aren't  you  going?" 

"Because  we  want  to  do  this  part  of  the  country." 

"But  there's  nothing  here  but  sand.  Look  here,  you 
can  go  to  California  just  as  well  as  not.  You'll  get  a 
climate  there.  You  won't  have  any  trouble  with  the 
roads,  if  that  is  what  is  troubling  you.  The  roads  are 
wonderful, — nothing  like  here.  You'll  find  a  live  state 
across  the  border, — only  ninety  miles  by  Yuma.  A  little 
sand — then  good  roads  all  the  way." 

"Yes,  but  we  don't  want  good  roads.  We  want  to 
stay  in  Arizona." 

A  long  pause,  "You  want  to  stay  in  Arizona?" 

"Yes." 

"But  California  is  only  ninety  miles  away." 

"But  we  like  Arizona  better." 

Wounded  incredulity.  "Oh,  you  can't.  You've  got 
sand  and  cactus  here, — just  a  blamed  desert.  And  look 
at  California,  the  garden  spot  of  the  world.  Roads  like 
boulevards,  scenery,  live  towns,  everything  you've  got  in 
the  East,  and  a  climate!  Now,  I  tell  you.  Here's  what 
you  do.  I  know  California  like  a  book,  born  there,  thank 
God.  You  let  me  plan  your  route.  You  go  to  San 
Diego,  work  up  the  coast,  see  the  Missions,  Los  An- 
geles, San  Francisco, — say,  that's  a  town, — and  then  up 
to  Seattle.  You'll  have  good  roads  all  the  way." 

"Yes,  but  we  were  planning  an  entirely  different  trip. 
Arizona  and  New  Mexico,  the  Rainbow  Bridge,  then 
north  to  Yellowstone  and  Glacier  Park." 

"Well,  it's  lucky  I  saw  you  in  time.  You  go  straight 
to  Needles, — you  can't  miss  the  road,  marked  all  the 


TUCSON  8 1 

way.  Good-by  and  good  luck.  You'll  like  California." 
Like  Jacob  with  the  angel  they  wrestled  with  us  and 
would  not  let  us  go.  After  several  such  encounters,  we 
learned  to  recognize  the  Native  Son  at  sight,  and  when 
he  opened  with  "Going  to  California?"  we  would  reply, 
with  the  courage  of  our  mendacity,  "Just  left."  It  saved 
us  hours  daily. 


CHAPTER  IX 

TWENTY  PER  CENT  GRADES,   FORTY  PER  CENT  VANILLA. 

/COMPLICATIONS  arose  when  we  reached  Tucson. 
V^J  We  planned  to  see  endless  places  but  most  of 
them,  at  an  altitude  of  a  half  mile  to  a  mile  and  a  half, 
could  be  reached  only  by  roads  still  under  ten  feet  of 
snow.  The  district  ridged  by  the  White  Mountains  was 
completely  cut  off,  its  unbridged  rivers  flooded,  and  its 
few  highways  covered  by  snow-drifts  thrice  the  height 
of  a  man.  The  same  conditions  prevailed  from  Flag- 
staff to  Winslow,  and  while  Southern  Arizona  picked 
oranges  and  basked  in  the  sun,  the  Grand  Canyon  was  in 
the  grip  of  winter.  It  became  necessary,  therefore, 
to  find  a  ranch  in  which  to  hibernate  for  a  month,  till 
Arizona  highways  became  less  like  the  trains  in  the  time 
table  Beatrice  Hereford  describes,  where  uthose  that 
start  don't  get  there,  and  those  that  get  there  don't 
start." 

Tucson  being  apparently  devoid  of  "dude"  ranches, 
we  decided  to  move  on  to  the  center  of  the  state  until  we 
found  what  we  sought.  The  shorter  and  more  obvious 
route  by  the  Old  Spanish  Trail,  through  Florence  to 
Chandler  and  Phoenix,  we  discarded  for  the  "new  state 
highway"  to  Winkleman  and  Globe,  thence  over  the 
Apache  Trail  to  the  Roosevelt  Dam,  and  Chandler. 
Globe  maintains  all  contact  with  the  world  by  the  Apache 
Trail :  in  the  huge,  irregular  quadrilateral  between  Globe 

82 


TWENTY  PER  CENT  GRADES  83 

and  Phoenix,  through  which  the  Mescal  and  Pinal  ranges 
stray,  there  is  no  other  road.  The  difficulty  of  travel 
in  Arizona  is  not  that  the  state  has  no  roads,  as  has 
been  unjustly  claimed,  but  that  the  roads  make  no  pre- 
tense of  linking  together  the  widely  scattered  towns. 

We  had  one  other  reason  for  taking  the  Apache  Trail 
besides  its  widely  advertised  beauty.  Everyone  who 
mentioned  it  spoke  in  bated  breath  of  its  difficulty,  "the 
steepest  and  most  dangerous  road  in  Arizona, — you  two 
women  surely  can't  mean  to  go  over  it  alone?  It's 
dangerous  even  for  a  man." 

Whatever  inward  qualms  these  remarks  evoked,  they 
made  us  only  more  curious  to  try  our  luck.  We  had 
already  learned  that  taken  a  car-length  at  a  time,  no  road 
is  as  bad  as  it  seems  in  toto,  and  few  situations  develop 
which  admit  of  no  solution.  As  for  doing  without  a 
man,  we  found  Providence  always  sent  what  we  needed, 
in  any  crisis  we  could  not  meet  ourselves.  In  Tucson  we 
found  two  old  friends,  Miss  Susan  and  Miss  Martha, 
who  shared  our  brash  confidence  in  ourselves  enough  to 
consent  to  go  with  us  as  far  as  Phoenix. 

One  can  travel  north  from  Phoenix  to  the  Dam,  then 
east  to  Globe,  or  reverse  the  route.  Most  people  con- 
sider the  Trail  more  magnificent  going  north  and  east, 
but  circumstances  forced  us  to  take  the  opposite  course. 
A  month  later,  we  made  the  reverse  journey,  so  that  we 
had  opportunity  to  judge  both  for  ourselves.  It  is  hard 
to  weigh  splendor  against  splendor.  No  matter  which 
direction  you  take,  you  will  be  constantly  looking  back 
to  snatch  the  glory  behind  you,  but  on  the  whole,  if  I 
could  travel  the  Apache  Trail  but  once,  I  should  start 
from  Phoenix. 


84  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

We  left  town  in  a  raw,  bleak  wind  which  became 
bleaker  as  we  circled  the  small  hills  about  Oracle.  For 
fifteen  miles  we  had  fine  macadam,  though  occasionally 
torn  with  deep  chuck-holes.  Then  we  left  the  made 
road,  and  meandered  up  and  down  bumpy  paths  through 
forests  of  the  finest,  most  varied  cacti  we  had  seen  any- 
where. Steep  slopes  were  covered  with  the  giant  sahuara, 
standing  bolt  upright  and  pointing  a  stiff  arm  to  heaven, 
like  an  uncouth  evangelist.  Demon  cholla  forests  with 
their  blurred  silver  gray  haze  seemed  not  to  belong  to 
this  definite  earth,  but  to  some  vague,  dead  moon. 
Among  them  wavered  the  long  listless  fingers  of  the 
ocotilla,  and  the  many-eared  prickly  pear  clambered  over 
the  sands  like  some  strange  sea  plant.  In  this  world  of 
unreal  beauty,  tawny  dunes  replaced  green  slopes,  and 
such  verdure  as  appeared  was  pale  yet  brilliant,  as  if 
lighted  by  electricity. 

Climbing  steadily,  we  passed  Winkleman,  a  little,  very 
German  settlement.  Nobody  had  suggested  we  should 
find  the  scenery  anything  out  of  the  ordinary,  though 
many  had  said  the  road  was  good, — an  outright  and 
prodigious  mis-statement  of  fact.  One  temperate  per- 
son had  mentioned  it  might  be  "well  worth  our  while." 
If  that  same  lady  were  to  meet  Christ  she  would  probably 
describe  him  as  "a  very  nice  man."  The  scenery  was 
grand;  it  progressed  from  grand  to  majestic,  and  from 
majestic  to  tremendous.  The  raw  wind,  with  its  ensuing 
flurry  of  cold  rain  had  died  down,  and  the  sun  was  out. 
Threading  westward  into  one  mountain  pass  after  an- 
other, we  soon  were  making  our  cautious  way  along  a 
narrow  shelf  which  constantly  wound  higher  and  higher 
above  the  rushing,  muddy  Gila  River.  We  had  come 


TWENTY  PER  CENT  GRADES  85 

suddenly  upon  magnificence  minus  macadam  where  we 
had  been  led  to  expect  macadam  minus  magnificence. 

Suddenly  looking  down,  I  decided  the  scenery  was 
becoming  altogether  too  grand.  Far  below,  the  Gila 
was  a  tiny  thread,  getting  tinier  every  moment.  On  the 
very  edge  of  the  fast  deepening  canyon  hung  the  road, 
with  neither  fence  nor  wall  between  us  and  eternity,  via 
the  Gila  River.  As  we  climbed,  the  road  narrowed  till 
for  a  dozen  miles  no  car  could  have  passed  us.  Regu- 
larly it  twisted  in  such  hairpin  curves  that  our  front 
tires  nearly  pinched  our  back  tires  as  we  made  the  turn. 
Instead  of  being  graded  level,  the  road  rose  or  fell  so 
steeply  in  rounding  corners  that  the  car's  hood  com- 
pletely concealed  which  way  the  road  twisted.  If  we 
went  left  while  the  road  turned  right  we  should  collide 
with  a  cliff;  if  the  road  turned  left  and  we  right,  we 
should  be  plunged  through  space,  so  it  behooved  us  to 
get  our  bearings  quickly. 

Once,  fortunately  at  a  wide  place,  we  met  a  team  of 
four  mules.  Ignorant  of  the  Arizona  law  requiring 
motorist  to  give  animals  the  inside  of  the  road,  we  drew 
up  close  to  the  cliff,  while  the  faithful  mules  went  half 
over  the  crumbly  edge,  but  kept  the  wagon  safely  on  the 
trails.  I  began  to  notice  a  strange  vacuum  where  once 
had  been  the  pit  of  my  stomach.  Ordinarily  I  cannot 
step  over  a  manhole  without  my  knees  crumpling  to 
paper,  and  that  thread  of  a  stream  a  mile,  or  probably 
only  about  500  feet  below,  gave  me  an  acute  attack  of 
"horizontal  fever." 

At  that  giddy  moment,  on  the  very  highest  spot,  I 
essayed  to  turn  a  sharp  corner  down  grade,  where  a 
ledge  threw  us  well  over  to  the  edge  of  the  curve,  and  I 


86  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

found  my  foot  brake  would  not  hold.  I  tried  the  emer- 
gency. It,  too,  had  given  way  from  the  constant  strain 
put  on  it.  We  were  already  in  "first,"  but  even  so,  at 
that  grade  our  heavy  car  would  coast  fifteen  or  twenty 
miles  an  hour.  The  road  ahead  switch-backed  down, 
down,  down.  I  calculated  we  could  make  two  turns 
safely  and  that  the  third  would  send  us  spinning  over 
the  chasm.  I  felt  my  face  undergo  what  novelists  call 
"blanching."  I  stiffened,  and  prepared  myself — no  time 
to  prepare  the  others — for  the  wildest  and  probably  the 
last  drive  of  my  life.  And  then  a  weak  voice  from 
behind  called:  "Stop  the  car,  please!  I  feel  ill." 

Poor  Miss  Martha  had  been  suffering  all  day  from  a 
sick  headache,  but  had  gallantly  admired  the  scenery  be- 
tween whiles.  Now,  oblivious  to  scenery,  with  closed  eyes 
and  wan  face,  she  waited  for  the  dreadful  motion  to  cease. 
I  wanted  to,  but  was  in  no  position  to  obey  her  reasonable 
request.  As  a  drowning  man  sees  everything,  to  my 
sharp  mental  vision  of  the  car  spinning  over  and  over 
toward  the  final  crash,  I  added  a  picture  of  poor  Miss 
Martha,  bewildered  all  the  way  down,  and  too  ill  to  do 
anything  but  wonder  why  the  car  would  not  stop.  I  lost 
fear  in  a  glow  of  altruistic  sympathy.  Then,  deciding 
something  had  to  be  done  quickly,  I  ran  the  "old  lady's" 
nose  into  a  ledge.  The  left  mudguard  bent,  but  we 
stuck. 

"The  car's  going  over!"  exclaimed  Miss  Susan,  much 
surprised. 

"No,  it  isn't,"  I  said,  rather  crossly.  As  well  as  two 
paper  knees  permitted,  I  got  out,  and  explained  about 
the  brakes.  Relieved  that  motion  had  ceased,  Miss 


TWENTY  PER  CENT  GRADES  87 

Martha  sank  back  blissfully  closing  her  eyes.    The  others 
had  not  realized  our  danger. 

It  was  evident  the  brakes  must  be  tightened  if  we  were 
to  reach  the  bottom  of  the  canyon  alive.  Neither  Toby 
nor  I  knew  how  to  tighten  brakes,  except  that  in  the 
process  one  got  under  the  car.  Accordingly,  as  diagnos- 
tician, I  crawled  beneath,  and  in  a  few  moments  found 
a  nut  which  looked  as  if  it  connected  with  the  brake, 
while  Toby,  who  is  exceedingly  clever  with  tools,  and 
something  of  a  contortionist,  managed  to  tighten  it.  We 
tried  the  foot  brakes.  They  held!  Never  had  we 
known  a  prouder  moment.  The  incident  gave  us  cour- 
age to  meet  new  contingencies,  and  never  again  did  I 
experience  just  that  sick  feeling  of  helplessness  of  a 
moment  before.  While  Toby  was  still  beneath  the 
wheels,  a  horn  sounded,  and  another  machine  climbed 
around  the  bend.  Miss  Susan  flagged  it  with  her  sweater 
just  in  time.  Two  men  emerged,  rather  startled  at  the 
encounter,  and  asked  how  they  were  to  pass.  As  the 
ascending  car,  they  had  the  right  of  way,  and  unlike  the 
courteous  mules,  intended  to  keep  it.  I  could  not  blame 
them  for  not  wanting  to  back  down  hill, — neither  did  I. 
I  could  not  tell  whether  my  knees  would  ever  be  "practi- 
cal" again.  The  road  was  little  more  than  ten  feet  wide, 
and  very  crooked.  I  am  usually  good  at  backing,  but 
sometimes  I  become  confused,  and  turn  the  wrong  way, 
— and  I  hated  to  spoil  the  view  by  backing  into  it.  After 
some  prospecting,  we  discovered  a  little  cubby-hole  at 
the  third  turn  down.  At  the  rate  of  an  inch  a  minute 
we  reached  it.  The  chauffeur  of  the  other  car  gave  us 
valuable  advice, — never  to  use  our  foot  brake  on  moun- 
tains, but  instead  to  shut  off  ignition,  shift  to  first  gear, 


88  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

and  if  we  still  descended  too  fast,  use  the  emergency 
brake  at  intervals.  If  the  grade  were  so  steep  as  to 
offset  all  these  precautions  (as  actually  happened  later,  on 
several  occasions)  the  foot  brake  could  be  alternately 
pressed  and  released. 

With  all  the  Rockies  before  us,  this  information  gave 
us  back  the  confidence  which  we  had  momentarily  lost 
while  we  poised  brakeless  over  the  Gila.  Before  reach- 
ing home,  we  were  to  travel  over  many  such  roads,  for 
we  motored  along  the  spine  of  the  Rockies  from  Mexico 
to  Alberta,  but  never  again  did  "horizontal  fever"  attack 
us  virulently.  This  "fine  state  highway"  from  Winkle- 
man  to  Glofee  proved  as  dangerous  a  road  as  we  were 
to  meet,  and  being  the  first  encountered  after  the  plains 
of  Texas  and  the  deserts  of  New  Mexico,  it  especially 
terrified  us.  A  month  later  we  traversed  it  without  a 
quiver. 

Once  more  into  the  valley,  and  into  Globe  as  the  lights 
came  out.  Globe  runs  up-hill  at  the  base  of  a  huge,  dark 
mountain,  full  of  gold  and  copper  and  other  precious 
metals.  Cowboys  and  bright-robed  Apaches  still  walk 
the  streets.  We  knew  the  town  was  busy  and  prosper- 
ous, but  as  usual  the  Arizonans  had  forgotten  to  men- 
tion its  scenic  value,  which  any  hotel  proprietor  back 
home  would  have  envied.  The  air,  too,  blows  bracing 
and  keen,  and  the  town's  whole  atmosphere  is  brisk, — 
except  at  the  drug-store,  where  I  dropped  in  to  shop  for 
a  cake  of  soap,  and  spent  an  hour, — a  delicious,  gossipy 
hour.  The  druggist  evidently  had  a  weakness  for  high- 
priced  soaps  wbich  he  had  indulged  lavishly  in  che 
seclusion  of  Globe,  more  for  esthetic  pleasure  than  hope 
of  commercial  gain.  We  were  kindred  souls,  for  Toby 


TWENTY  PER  CENT  GRADES  89 

and  I  had  developed  a  mania  for  soap-collecting,  and  at 
each  new  hotel  pilfered  soap  with  joy.  We  discussed 
the  relative  merits  of  French  and  domestic  soaps,  of 
violet  and  sandalwood,  of  scented  and  unscented.  He 
told  me  the  kind  his  wife  used,  and  as  an  indirect  com- 
pliment I  bought  a  cake  of  it. 

And  so,  to  bed,  and  to  dream  I  had  driven  the  car  to 
the  third  floor  of  our  hotel,  when  the  proprietor  dis- 
covered it,  and  ordered  me  to  take  it  away.  They 
refused  us  the  elevator  and  I  was  forced  to  bump  the 
great  leviathan  downstairs,  one  step  at  a  time.  How  I 
labored  to  keep  the  unwieldy  bulk  from  getting  beyond 
control !  I  awoke  to  find  both  feet  pressed  hard  against 
the  footboard  of  the  bed. 

At  the  garage  next  morning  we  heard  more  of  the 
dangers  of  the  Apache  Trail.  Considering  nobody  had 
thought  the  dangers  of  the  Winkleman  road  important 
enough  to  mention,  I  became  extremely  dubious  that  we 
would  reach  Roosevelt  Dam  alive.  Still,  the  weather  was 
charming,  blue  sky  and  hot  sun.  I  could  not  believe  the 
Lord  would  let  anyone  die  on  such  a  day. 

As  if  the  sun  were  not  bright  enough,  fields  of  golden 
stubble  made  the  scene  dance  with  light.  A  herd  of 
Holsteins  lent  a  dash  of  black  and  white,  and  the  far 
hills  across  the  Gila  were  pink,  mauve,  orange,  lemon, 
— any  preposterous  color  but  those  a  normal  hill  should 
be. 

We  were  following  the  trail  over  which  Coronado  and 
his  army  rode  when,  incidentally  to  their  search  for  gold, 
they  made  history  in  1540.  Over  this  same  road,  for 
thousands  of  years,  native  Americans,  Toltecs,  cliff- 
dwellers,  Apaches,  friars,  and  forty-niners,  have 


90  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

traveled  to  satisfy  blood-lust  and  gold-lust,  religion, 
fanaticism,  and  empire  building.  Until  the  Roosevelt 
Dam  let  in  a  flood  of  tourists,  few  traveled  it  except  on 
grim  business.  The  romance  of  a  thousand  years 'of 
tense  emotions  experienced  by  resolute  men  haunts  that 
lovely  sun-flooded  valley. 

Mormons  still  follow  the  Trail,  recognizable  by  their 
long,  greasy  beards.  One  such  passed  us,  driving  an 
ancient  Ford, — the  very  one,  I  should  say,  in  which 
Brigham  Young  came  to  Utah.  It  showed  faded  rem- 
nants of  three  coats  of  paint,  white,  blue  and  black.  On 
the  radiator  rested  a  hen  coop  containing  several  placid 
biddies.  We  tacitly  ignored  a  murmur  from  Toby  about 
"an  eggs-hilarating  drive."  A  dozen  children,  more  or 
less,  sat  beside  the  Mormon.  Attached  to  the  Ford  was 
a  wagon,  drawn  by  six  burros,  with  a  burro  colt  trotting 
beside,  and  atop  the  wagon,  under  a  canvas  roof,  a  few 
more  women  and  children.  We  were  too  appalled  to 
notice  whether  the  Ford  pulled  the  burros,  or  the  burros 
pushed  the  Ford.  Following  the  prairie  schooner  came 
a  rickety  wagon,  piled  with  chairs,  stoves  and  other 
domestic  articles.  Last  of  all  came  a  house.  It  was,  to 
be  sure,  a  small  house,  but  considering  that  the  car  was 
only  working  on  two  cylinders,  one  could  not  reasonably 
expect  more. 

Later  we  passed  a  man  on  horseback,  wearing  two 
sombreros,  one  atop  the  other,  with  a  certain  jaunty  de- 
fiance. Whether  he  did  it  from  ostentation,  for  warmth, 
to  save  space,  to  keep  out  moths,  or  was  just  moving,  we 
could  not  guess.  Or  he  may  have  been  a  half-crazy 
prospector,  whose  type  we  began  to  recognize, — old, 
vague-eyed  men  with  strange  beards,  speech  curiously 


TWENTY  PER  CENT  GRADES  91 

halting,  from  long  disuse,  and  slow,  timid  manners, — 
riding  a  burro  or  rack-of-boneS  horse  up  a  side  trail.  In 
every  section  of  the  Rockies  one  meets  these  ancient, 
unwashed  optimists,  searching  in  unlikely  crannies,  more 
from  life-long  habit  than  in  the  hope  of  striking  it  rich. 
So  long  have  they  lived  remote  from  human  beings,  that 
if  a  gold  mine  suddenly  yielded  them  the  long  sought 
fortune  and  compelled  them  to  return  to  the  world,  they 
would  die  of  homesickness. 

When  Coronado  marched  over  the  Apache  Trail,  he 
saw  far  above  him  a  walled  town  built  in  the  recessed 
cliffs,  whose  protective  coloring  made  it  nearly  invisible 
to  the  casual  passerby.  The  Spaniard,  seeking  the  Seven 
Cities  of  Cibola,  imagined  he  had  discovered  one  of  their 
strongholds,  but  when  he  rushed  up  the  steep  path,  more 
breathless,  doubtless,  in  his  heavy  armor  than  we  four 
centuries  later  in  our  khaki  suits,  he  found  the  swallow's 
nest  deserted,  and  the  birds  flown, — where  and  for  what 
reason  is  the  great  mystery  of  the  Southwest. 

So  cunningly  hidden  are  these  sky  parlors  that  we 
drove  by  them  without  seeing  them,  and  had  to  inquire 
their  whereabouts  at  the  local  postoffice.  At  Monte 
Cristo  they  show  you  the  very  window  from  which  the 
Count  did  not  leap;  at  Salem  any  citizen  will  proudly 
stop  work  to  point  out  the  hill  where  the  witches  were 
not  burned,  but  the  postmistress  in  a  Georgette  waist  knew 
of  the  cliff-dwellings  only  as  a  fad  of  crazy  tourists, 
although  she  could  have  walked  to  them  in  the  time  she 
took  to  remove  her  chewing  gum  before  answering  us. 
Out  West  they  have  not  learned  the  art  of  making  their 
ancestors  earn  an  honest  penny. 

We  lunched  at  the  Tonto  ruins,  and  that  lunch  marks 


92  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

the  beginning  of  Toby's  mania  for  hoarding  bits  of 
broken  pottery,  charred  sticks  and  other  relics  of  the 
past.  She  learned  to  distinguish  between  the  red  and 
black  of  the  middle  ages,  the  black  and  white  of  an 
earlier  era,  and  the  plain  thumb-nail  of  remotest  an- 
tiquity. She  never  could  resist  adding  just  one  more 
bit  of  painted  clay  or  obsidian  to  her  knobby  collection, 
and  the  blue  bandana  in  which  she  tied  them  grew 
steadily  larger,  until  it  overflowed  into  the  pockets  of 
the  car,  and  the  food  box,  and  after  awhile  she  clinked 
as  she  walked,  and  said  "Ouch"  when  she  sat  down 
absent-mindedly. 

Leaving  the  ruins  and  following  the  shelf  high  above 
the  blue  lake,  we  came  quite  unexpectedly  on  the  dam, 
not  five  miles  further.  It  was  a  surprise  to  reach  our 
first  night's  stop  with  half  the  dread  Trail  behind  us, 
and  no  thrilling  escapes  from  destruction.  We  learned 
at  the  Inn  that  the  worst  sixteen  miles  lay  ahead  on  the 
road  to  Fish  Creek.  Indeed,  the  Apache  Trail,  al- 
though narrow,  full  of  turns  and  fairly  precipitous  in 
places,  proved  a  far  simpler  matter  than  the  unadver- 
tised  "highway"  out  of  Winkleman,  while  the  scenery 
itself  was  hardly  lovelier. 

Rounding  the  shoulder  of  a  massive  cliff,  we  swung 
sharply  down  hill  to  a  narrow  bridge  of  masonry,  the 
arm  holding  back  the  great  artificial  body  of  water.  In 
front  was  the  dam,  one  of  the  largest  in  the  world,  and 
in  difficulty  of  construction,  one  of  the  most  interesting  to 
engineers.  Yet  the  flood  twice  Niagara's  height  pouring 
over  it,  is  dwarfed  to  a  mere  trickle  by  the  majesty  of 
the  cliffs  above.  To  get  its  full  impressiveness  you  must 
descend  to  the  bottom  of  the  masonry  and  look  up  at 


TWENTY  PER  CENT  GRADES  93 

the  volume  pouring  over  the  curved  wall,  which  has 
made  a  quarter  of  a  million  acres  of  desert  the  most 
fruitful  section  of  this  continent.  You  observe  a  man 
walking  along  the  steps  which  line  the  concave  wall  of 
the  dam  in  close  formation,  and  notice  that  his  shoulder 
is  on  a  level  with  the  step  above.  Gradually,  isolated 
from  its  dwarfing  surroundings,  the  handiwork  of  Man 
impresses  you.  There  has  been  talk  of  placing  near  the 
dam  a  memorial  to  Roosevelt,  but  no  fitting  memorial 
could  be  placed  there  which  would  not  seem  of  pigmy 
significance.  The  best  and  most  appropriate  memorial 
to  the  man  of  deeds  is  the  dam  itself,  and  the  fertile  and 
prosperous  Salt  River  Valley  below  it. 

At  the  Inn  built  on  the  borders  of  the  lake  we  asked 
for  rooms.  The  innkeeper,  a  plump  and  rubicund  Irish- 
man, seemed  flustered.  His  eyes  swam,  and  he  looked 
through  us  and  beyond  us  with  a  fixed  glare.  His  breath 
came  short  and  labored — very  fragrant. 

"Don't  hurry  me,  lady,"  he  replied  pettishly  to  Miss 
Susan,  "can't  you  see  the  crowds  waiting  for  rooms? 
They  ain't  trying  to  get  in  ahead  of  their  turn.  They're 
behaving  themselves.  They  aint  trying  to  nag  the  life 
out  of  me  asking  for  this  and  that.  They  aint  pushin' 
and  shovin'.  Now,  lady,"  fixing  a  stern  eye  upon  her, 
and  speaking  like  a  man  whose  patience  would  outlast 
any  strain,  "I'm  at  my  wit's  end  with  all  these  people. 
Can't  you  be  reasonable  and  wait  till  I  git  'round  to 
you?" 

As  we  were  the  only  people  in  sight,  we  were  forced 
to  conclude  he  was  seeing  us  in  generous  quantities. 
Possibly,  too,  we  were  not  standing  still,  but  were  whirl- 
ing around  in  an  irritating  way.  So  we  waited  patiently 


94  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

for  an  hour  or  so,  while  John  made  frequent  trips  to  the 
back  of  the  house.  As  the  afternoon  shortened,  and 
John's  temper  with  it,  the  crowd  steadily  increased. 

"Are  our  rooms  ready  yet?"  I  finally  asked.  His  eye 
wandered  past  me  and  lighted  upon  Miss  Susan.  He 
fixed  upon  her,  as  a  person  who  had  given  him  much 
trouble  a  long  time  ago. 

"What!  You  here  again?"  He  had  a  fine  exclama- 
tory style.  "Lady,  you're  giving  me  more  trouble  than 
all  the  rest  of  'em  put  together.  Here,  Ed,"  he  called  a 
clerk,  with  great  magnanimity,  "take  'em.  Give  'em  a 
room.  Give  'em  the  hotel.  Give  'em  anything  they 
want.  Only  get  'em  out  of  my  way." 

They  led  us  to  our  tents,  where  the  beds  were  still 
unmade.  The  clerk  left,  promising  to  get  John  to  send 
a  chambermaid.  We  felt  less  hopeful  than  he,  for  as  we 
were  banished  from  his  presence  we  observed  him  feel- 
ing his  way,  a  cautious  mile  or  so  at  a  time,  to  the  far 
reaches  of  the  kitchen.  We  made  one  or  two  trips  to 
the  hotel  to  induce  somebody  to  make  up  our  beds,  keep- 
ing Miss  Susan  well  in  the  background,  for  the  sight  of 
her  seemed  more  than  John  could  bear.  But  he  pounced 
on  her. 

"Have  you  any  idea  of  the  troubles  of  a  hotel  keeper?" 
His  forbearance  by  now  had  become  sublime.  "Any 
idea?  No,  lady,  I  can  see  you  haven't.  If  you  had 
you'd  be  a  little  patient." 

Our  beds  were  made,  but  an  hour  later  we  were  still 
without  towels  and  water,  while  one  tent  had  no  lights. 
The  rest  of  us  were  thoroughly  cowed  by  this  time,  but 
opposition  had  stiffened  little  Miss  Susan  to  the  point 
where  she  would  risk  being  hurled  over  the  dam  before 


TWENTY  PER  CENT  GRADES  95 

she  would  be  brow-beaten.  We  timidly  followed,  giving 
her  our  physical  if  not  our  moral  support,  while  she 
stated  our  case,  which  she  did  quite  simply. 

"We've  been  here  some  hours,  and  we  still  have  no 
towels  or  electric  lights. " 

"Be  reasonable.  I  ask  you,  lady,  one  thing,  if  pos- 
sible." Heavy  sarcasm.  "Be  reasonable.  I've  got  my 
troubles,  same  as  you  have.  All  the  world  has  its 
troubles.  Now  why  can't  you  stand  yours  with  a  little 
patience?" 

"I'm  sorry  for  your  troubles,"  said  Miss  Susan,  sym- 
pathetically. "But  we  are  paying  for  towels  and  electric 
lights.  Why  shouldn't  you  give  them  to  us?" 

At  this  John  became  violent. 

"Lady!  Go!"  He  pointed  dramatically  to  the  dam, 
and  the  road  out  into  the  wilderness  beyond.  "Go !  I 
don't  want  you !  And  never  come  back  again.  Lady,  if 
everyone  was  like  you,  I'd  go  crazy.  You've  been  ask- 
ing for  something  ever  since  you  struck  the  place.  Why, 
since  you've  come  here,  the  help  has  all  come  to  me 
and  give  notice.  Now,  get  out  1" 

For  fear  he  might  carry  out  the  eviction  on  the  spot, 
and  send  us  on  sixteen  miles  of  precipitous  darkness, 
we  again  retreated.  After  supper,  facing  the  terrify- 
ing prospect  of  feeling  her  way  to  bed,  lightless,  and 
with  no  lock  on  the  door  to  keep  out  inebriated  landlords 
or  mountain  lions,  Miss  Susan  resolved  on  action.  She 
tiptoed  to  the  dining  room,  and  was  in  the  act  of  unscrew- 
ing a  bulb  from  its  socket  when  John  appeared  from  the 
vicinity  of  the  kitchen.  At  sight  of  his  arch  enemy  thus 
outraging  his  hospitality,  anger  and  grief  swelled  within 
him.  Probably  the  only  thing  that  kept  Miss  Susan, 


96  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

dauntless  but  scared,  from  being  completely  annihilated 
was  that  he  could  not  decide  which  one  of  her  to  begin 
on  first. 

"Lady!"  he  exclaimed,  sorrowfully,  as  if  he  could  not 
believe  his  eyes, — and  possibly  he  could  not — "Lady! 
Off  my  own  dining-room  table!" 

He  reached  wobbly  but  sublime  heights  of  forbearance, 
his  voice  filled  with  reproachful  irony. 

"Lady,  I  got  one  thing  to  ask  you.  Only  one.  If  you 
got  to  take  my  electric  lights, — if  you've  sunk  as  low  as 
that,  lady, — all  I  ask  is,  don't  take  'em  off  my  dining- 
room  table.  I've  seen  all  sorts  of  people  here  in  my 
day, — all  sorts,  but  none  of  them  would  steal  the  lights 
off  my  dining-room  table.1' 

"I  have  never  been  so  insulted  in  all  my  life,"  ex- 
claimed Miss  Susan. 

"Lady,"  said  John,  swaying  as  by  an  invisible  breeze, 
"I  am  trying  to  be  as  nice  as  I  know  how." 

A  few  scared  employes  later  sought  our  tents,  to  apolo- 
gize for  John. 

"John  is  never  like  this,"  said  one  succinctly,  "except 
when  he's  this  way." 

"I  thought  Arizona  was  a  prohibition  state,"  I  said, 
remembering  the  sheriff  of  Pima  County,  "where  does 
he  get  it?" 

Their  eyes  wandered  to  the  horizon,  and  remained 
fixed  there. 

"Vanilla  extract,"  said  one. 

The  scientifically  minded  Toby  made  an  excursion  to 
the  Inn,  and  came  back  with  a  satisfied  sniff. 

"It  wasn't  vanilla,"  she  reported  positively. 

Upon  the  hotel  porch,   we   could  see   John's   white 


TWENTY  PER  CENT  GRADES  97 

jacketed  fat  figure  mincing  up  and  down  before  a  group 
of  late-comers  holding  an  imaginary  skirt  in  one  hand. 
First  he  was  Miss  Susan,  red-handed  and  infamous; .then 
he  became  himself,  majestic  yet  forbearing. 

"Took  them  right  off  my  dining-room  table,"  we  heard 
him  say» 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY 

TWEAKING  the  wrath  of  John,  we  made  a  guilty  start 
X  in  the  freshness  of  the  next  morning.  But  when  we 
paid  our  bill  and  left,  John  was  still  heavily  under  the 
influence  of  vanilla,  and  to  Miss  Susan's  relief,  we  did 
not  encounter  him.  Even  in  bright  daylight  with  no 
traffic  we  were  an  hour  and  a  half  driving  the  sixteen 
miles  to  Fish  Creek.  Salt  River  Valley  became  a  narrow 
chasm,  dark  and  gloomy  but  for  the  glint  of  emerald 
cottonwoods  edging  the  stream  at  the  bottom.  A  chaotic 
heap  of  brilliant-hued  peaks  filled  the  valley. 

The  road  was  all  that  had  been  claimed  for  it.  Had 
we  not  been  inoculated  with  horizontal-fever  serum  on 
the  still  more  precarious  Winkleman  trail,  we  might  have 
fallen  over  the  precipice  in  sheer  giddiness.  The  natural 
hazards  of  a  road  which  skipped  from  top  to  bottom  of  a 
series  of  thousand-foot  rocks  were  increased  by  tipping 
outward  up-hill  and  around  corners,  so  that  frequently  we 
lurched  over  steep  chasms  at  a  far  from  reassuring  angle, 
while  our  long  wheel-base  increased  complications.  Boul- 
ders loosened  from  the  crumbling  cliffs  above,  cluttered 
the  road  at  the  most  dangerous  turns.  A  glance  ahead  at 
a  dizzy  drop  of  several  thousand  feet,  then  beyond  to  a 
corresponding  climb,  and  still  further  to  dips  and  swoops 
exceeding  the  most  breath-taking  devices  of  Coney  Island, 

would  make  me  weak-kneed.     But  taking  the  road  in  a 

08 


APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY     99 

near-sighted  way,  after  one  quick  glance  over  switch- 
backs to  make  sure  we  should  meet  no  traffic,  and  meet- 
ing each  problem  in  driving  as  it  came  abreast  the  steer- 
ing wheel,  I  found  the  Apache  Trail  as  safe  as  a  church. 

We  breakfasted  under  the  highest  peak  of  all,  at  the 
little  Fish  Creek  inn.  Here  the  scenery  resembled  the 
landscapes  of  impressive  grandeur  our  grandmothers  re- 
ceived for  wedding  presents,  with  crags  and  waterfalls, 
jungles,  mountains  and  valleys  gloomily  heaped  together 
in  a  three  foot  canvas.  Our  breakfast  was  a  simple  af- 
fair of  stewed  fruit,  oatmeal,  fried  ham,  fried  eggs, 
bacon,  hot  biscuits,  coffee  and  griddle  cakes.  Thus  se- 
curely ballasted,  our  chance  of  being  toppled  off  a  cliff's 
edge  was  materially  lessened.  Now  came  the  climax  of 
the  drive, — the  climb  to  Lookout  Point. 

Two  thousand  vertical  feet  of  rock  would  seem  a  suf- 
ficient barrier  to  turn  humanity  back  into  the  fastnesses 
whence  it  came.  But  moccasined  feet  had  won  to  the 
summit,  and  motor  cars  with  the  power  of  many  cayuses 
now  roar  over  the  same  trail,  a  tortuous  mile  upward 
to  Lookout  Point.  Whether  this  spot  was  named  for 
its  scenic  beauty  or  for  a  warning,  matters  not :  the  name 
fits.  We  looked  our  fill.  I  cannot  describe  what  we  saw. 
Go  and  see  it  for  yourself,  even  at  the  risk  of  breaking  a 
neck.  The  safety  of  one's  neck  is  always  inversely  as 
the  beauty  of  the  view. 

Miles  on  jagged  miles  of  mountain  tops  lay  below  us. 
It  was  not  long  before  we  became  aware  of  the  extreme 
unimportance  of  ourselves  and  our  tiny  affairs.  The 
mountains  shouted  to  each  other,  "GOD  IS!" 

With  a  suggestion  of  Bunyan,  we  reached  Superstition 
Mountain  next,  and  left  it  behind.  Then  the  scenery, 


ioo  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

having  had  its  last  triumphant  fling  of  grandeur,  settled 
down  to  levels  of  gray  and  brown.  The  world  which  a 
moment  since  had  stood  on  its  head  for  joy  tumbled  flat, 
and  became  content  with  mediocrity. 

Five  miles  more,  and  the  reason  for  Roosevelt  Dam 
lay  before  our  eyes.  Five  miles  of  blistering  country,  so 
dry,  as  a  guide  said,  that  "when  you  spit  you  can't  see 
where  it  lands" ;  a  country  burnt  to  a  crisp  by  withering 
sunshine  so  intense  that  shadows,  sharp-edged  as  razor 
blades,  look  vermilion  purple.  Only  horned  reptiles, 
poisonous  and  thorny-backed,  can  exist  here,  and  plants  as 
ungracious,  compelled  to  hoard  their  modicum  of  moisture 
in  iron-clad,  spiny  armament.  And  then,  a  line  of  de- 
marcation the  width  of  a  street,  and  the  Water-God  has 
turned  this  colorless  ache  of  heat  to  emerald  green. 
Thwarted  cactus  gives  way  to  long  rows  of  poplars  and 
leopard-spotted  eucalyptus  bordering  blue  canals.  We 
saw  a  corner  of  Southern  France  where  the  hills  of 
Provence  edge  the  fertile  plains  of  Avignon.  We  were 
in  the  famous  Salt  River  Valley,  the  boast  of  parched 
Arizona. 

We  followed  these  shady  canals  into  Phoenix,  bump- 
ing over  dismally  paved  roads,  and  making  wide  detours 
where  some  irrigator  greedy  for  water  had  flooded 
the  street.  After  leaving  our  friends  at  the  station,  we 
returned,  sand  blowing  in  our  faces,  to  the  San  Marcos 
Hotel  at  Chandler.  Neither  town  nor  hotel  has  geo- 
graphic or  commercial  reasons  for  existing,  but  both  are 
examples  of  one  man's  patient  persistence  in  a  fight  with 
stubborn  Nature.  Chandler  is  typical  of  the  whole  Val- 
ley. Sand-besieged  from  the  north,  it  sets  a  flame  of 
verdure  to  meet  the  devastating  onslaught  of  the  desert, 


APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY  101 

blossoming  defiantly  till  the  air  is  saturated  with  per- 
fume. A  contrast  to  the  uncompromising  shoe-box  fronts 
of  most  Western  hotels,  the  San  Marcos  displayed  low 
plaster  arcades  hung  with  swinging  plants  inviting  all 
the  song  birds  of  the  valley,  cool  corridors  and  care- 
fully planned  interiors,  and  gardens  framed  by  distant 
lilac  mountains.  Across  from  the  hotel  little  shops  re- 
peated its  design  of  reposeful  Mission.  Only  on  the  out- 
skirts of  this  little  town  did  we  meet  with  the  crude  un- 
sophistication  of  the  Rockies.  Yet  before  a  week  passed 
all  this  artificial  fertility  and  prettiness  palled.  It  was 
not  Arizona.  Beyond  the  orange  and  olive  groves  of  the 
Valley,  beyond  the  blooming  roses  and  the  song  of  the 
nightingale,  and  all  the  daintiness  of  eastern  standards 
inlaid  upon  the  west  we  felt  the  threat  of  the  arid  waste 
circling  this  little  island  of  fruitfulness.  The  dam,  bene- 
ficent as  it  is,  harnesses  but  does  not  destroy  the  desert. 

We  found  ourselves  making  excursions  back  to  the  un- 
trammeled  wastes  of  sand  beyond.  Once  we  made  a 
day's  excursion  to  Casa  Grande,  forty  miles  away,  over 
the  Maricopa  reservation. 

No  spot  could  look  more  untouched  by  human  life 
than  this  wind-ribbed  and  desolate  palimpsest  of  sand  on 
which  layer  on  layer  of  history  has  been  scratched.  The 
old  Santa  Fe  Trail,  from  armored  Spaniard  to  Wells- 
Fargo  days,  ran  directly  over  a  corner  of  ruins  since 
excavated.  Before  1700  Father  Kino  came  upon  this 
remote  house  of  the  Morning  Glow,  as  the  Indians  called 
it,  and  held  mass  in  its  empty  rooms  for  the  tribes  of  the 
region.  Coronado  the  ubiquitous  may  have  seen  it  since 
he  speaks  of  a  Great  House  built  by  Indians.  Even  then, 
the  place  lay  in  ruins,  and  for  how  much  further  back? 


102 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


Nobody  knows,  and  guesses  are  a  millennium  apart.  It 
is  America's  oldest  ruin. 

We  drove  home  across  the  desert  through  a  world 
transfigured.  The  afternoon  sun  in  that  pure  air  scat- 
tered prismatic  stains  over  gray  mesquite  and  sage,  and 
colored  the  translucent  hills  in  gay  pinks  and  blues.  Su- 
perstition Mountain  loomed  clear  and  cold  on  our  left. 
But  what  caught  and  held  our  eyes  in  this  pastel  land  was 
a  riot,  a  debauch  of  clear  orange-gold.  Born  overnight 
of  a  quick  shower  and  a  spring  sun,  a  million  deep- 
centered  California  poppies  spread  a  fabulous  mosaic 
over  the  dull  earth,  fairy  gold  in  a  fairy  world,  alive, 
ablaze.  A  sunset  was  thrown  in,  and  a  crescent  moon  in  a 
Pompadour  sky  helped  us  thread  our  way  home  through 
arroyos  and  over  blind  trails. 

Still  in  search  of  a  "dood  ranch,"  we  trailed  all  over 
the  Salt  River  Valley. 

Some  of  the  ranches  where  we  sought  board  and  lodg- 
ing were  surrounded  by  orange  groves.  The  hosts  made 
a  point  of  the  privilege  allowed  guests  to  pick  and  eat  all 
the  oranges  they  liked,  but  at  the  prices  charged  we  could 
have  procured  the  same  privilege  in  any  hotel  in  New 
York.  Arizona  prices  do  not,  like  the  ostrich,  hide  their 
heads  in  the  sand.  The  completion  of  the  dam  made 
Salt  River  Valley  realize  that  the  climate  she  had  always 
possessed,  crowned  with  fruit  and  flowers,  made  her  Cali- 
fornia's rival.  She  began  to  cultivate  oranges,  pecans  and 
a  professional  enthusiasm  for  herself.  One  Native  Son 
of  Phoenix  of  whom  I  was  buying  post-cards  almost  sold 
me  a  triangular  corner  of  his  ranch,  at  $300  an  acre.  If 
it  had  been  irrigated,  he  said  he  would  have  had  to  charge 
more.  The  longer  he  talked  the  more  eager  I  was  to  se- 


APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY  103 

cure  this  Paradise  whose  native  milk  and  honey  would 
keep  me  in  affluence  and  spare  tires  the  rest  of  my  days. 
Toby,  however,  who  had  been  strolling  about  during  the 
exhortation  and  had  not  been  splashed  by  his  golden 
shower  of  words,  advised  postponing  purchase  till  we 
saw  the  land.  We  drove  out,  and  looked  at  it.  One  thing 
he  had  claimed  was  true : — it  was  triangular.  It  was 
frankly  desert,  but  not  even  pretty  desert.  Except  for  a 
deserted  pigsty  in  the  immediate  foreground,  there  was 
no  view.  We  drove  back  to  Phoenix. 

Now  Phoenix  has  paved  streets  and  electric  lights  and 
a  Chamber  of  Commerce,  a  State  House  and  a  Gov- 
ernor. But  somehow,  Phoenix  had  no  charm  for  us. 
Phoenix  may  be  Arizona,  but  it  is  Arizona  denatured. 
All  Salt  River  Valley  seemed  denatured.  It  had  taken 
its  boom  seriously,  and  the  arch  crime  of  self-conscious- 
ness possessed  it.  For  the  first  time  since  the  Aztecs  one 
can  find  Arizonans  trying  to  do  what  other  people  do, 
rather  than  what  they  dam-please.  And  it  set,  oh,  so 
heavily  on  Phoenix  and  the  Phoenicians  and  on  the  East- 
erners and  Californians  who  had  come  there  to  be  as 
western  as  they  dared.  Finally  we  heard  of  a  little 
ranch  away  up  in  the  country  north  of  the  dam,  where 
we  need  not  dress  for  dinner,  and  there  we  hied  us. 

As  we  were  leaving,  we  did  find  one  person  in  the 
Valley  who  was  entirely  free  from  the  vice  of  self-con- 
sciousness. While  I  bought  gasoline  at  forty-five  cents 
a  gallon  in  Mesa  to  save  having  to  pay  seventy-five  in 
Payson,  she  spied  me  and  came  up  eagerly  to  pass  the 
time  of  day. 

"Awful  hot,"  she  said  cordially,  fixing  calm  brown 
eyes  on  me. 


io4  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

"Indeed  it  is,"  I  said. 

A  worried  expression  passed  over  her  sweetly  creased 
old  face. 

"Terrible  unseasonable.  Hard  to  know  what  to  do 
about  your  winter  flannels." 

"I  changed  mine  today,"  I  replied. 

Her  brown  eyes  again  became  serene  pools. 

"Guess  I  will,  too,"  she  answered. 

In  Boston  it  would  have  taken  two  generations  to 
have  reached  the  subject  of  winter  flannels.  We  ex- 
changed no  further  courtesies,  except  smiles,  and  she 
left  looking  cooler  already. 

At  a  little  ranch  near  Pine,  Arizona,  northwest  of 
Roosevelt  Dam,  we  hoped  to  find  lodging.  Hoped,  be- 
cause a  letter  from  Chandler  took  a  week  or  more  to 
penetrate  to  its  remoteness,  and  ours  had  not  long  pre- 
ceded us.  Some  discussion  there  had  been  as  to  whether 
the  snow  would  permit  us  to  get  through,  but  we  decided 
to  chance  it,  for  spring  was  daily  working  in  our  favor. 

We  had  not  gone  far  from  town  when  the  "old  lady" 
without  any  preliminary  groans,  stopped  short.  Cars 
have  a  way  of  doing  that,  but  ours  till  now  had  stopped 
only  for  external  reasons,  such  as  a  tire,  or  a  too  per- 
suasive mud-hole.  Now  she  stopped  as  though  she  needed 
a  rest  and  intended,  willy-nilly,  to  take  one.  On  such 
occasions  I  always  open  the  hood  and  peer  inside,  not 
because  it  enlightens  me  or  starts  the  car,  but  because 
Toby  has  not  yet  learned  to  regard  it  as  a  graceful  ges- 
ture, merely. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  with  the  respect  I  liked  to 
have  her  employ. 


APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY  105 

"Either  the  carburetor  or  the  batteries,"  I  answered 
expertly. 

A  man  drove  by.  Our  silent  motor,  and  ourselves  in 
the  despairing,  bewildered  attitude  common  to  all  in  like 
situation,  were  the  only  signal  needed,  for  this  was  Ari- 
zona. A  moment  before  he  had  seemed  in  a  tearing 
hurry,  but  as  he  pulled  up  and  offered  help,  he  seemed  to 
have  all  the  time  in  the  calendar.  He  got  down  in  the 
dust,  wrestled  with  the  tools  we  intelligently  handed  him 
at  proper  intervals,  explored  the  batteries,  and  struggled 
to  his  feet. 

"Batteries  all  right.     Ignition." 

Four  miles  from  town,  with  a  dead  motor!  But  be- 
fore we  had  time  to  exchange  doleful  glances,  he  asked 
briskly, 

"Got  a  rope?" 

We  protested  at  his  inconveniencing  himself,  for  we 
had  a  fixed  scruple  that  having  taken  to  the  road  regard- 
less of  consequences,  we  should  be  willing  to  take  our 
own  medicine  and  abide  by  what  arrived.  But  we  might 
have  saved  our  breath.  The  Samaritans  who  passed  by 
on  our  side  always  answered  comfortably  as  did  this 
latest  benefactor. 

"What'm/here  for?" 

Thus,  with  at  least  an  hour's  loss,  Number  10,  or  n, 
or  12  of  the  Nicest  Men  We  Ever  Met  towed  us  to 
the  nearest  ranch,  and  there  telephoned  for  help.  How 
welcome  were  the  rattletrap  ex-racer,  and  blue-overalled 
mechanic  with  a  smudge  on  his  left  cheek  who  came  to 
a  dashing  stop  opposite  our  machine, — the  same  mechanic 
we  had  despised  yesterday  for  forgetting  to  fill  our  grease- 


106  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

cups, — I  was  tempted  to  paraphrase  Goldsmith,  or  some- 
body, 

"Garageman,  in  thine  hours  of  ease 

Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
But  seen  too  oft,  familiar  with  thy  face 

We  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace  I" 

Smudge  and  all,  we  nearly  embraced  him  when  he  took 
apart  and  put  together  the  whole  ignition  system,  and 
came  out  even.  Presently,  at  the  heart  of  that  tightly 
closed  metal  box,  on  a  tiny  point  hardly  larger  than  a 
needle  he  discovered  a  few  grains  of  sand,  memento  of  our 
last  sandstorm.  Like  the  blood  clot  which  strikes  down 
robust  men,  it  had  stopped  a  ton  of  mechanism  from  func- 
tioning. Philosophizing  thus,  we  idly  watched  the  me- 
chanic put  together  those  intricate  parts,  little  realizing 
how  useful  the  experience  would  prove  later. 

It  was  part  of  the  odd  luck  which  from  beginning  to 
end  followed  us  that  our  breakdown  happened  before  we 
had  re-entered  the  isolated  Apache  Trail,  with  its  break- 
neck grades.  Still,  our  adventure  delayed  us,  until  on 
entering  the  pass  with  its  looming  mountains  and  wild 
gorges  shutting  us  away  from  the  world,  darkness  had 
closed  in  around  us, — the  pitch-black  of  a  wilderness 
night.  Ahead  lay  the  famed  Fish  Creek  road,  fairly  ter- 
rifying a  week  ago  when  we  climbed  it  in  broad  day- 
light. Now,  in  the  dark,  we  were  to  descend  this  dizzy 
corkscrew  which  dropped  a  thousand  feet  in  a  mile  and 
a  quarter.  One  lamp  gave  only  a  feeble  light,  but  the 
other  threw  a  magnificent  steady  glare  which  pierced  the 
loneliness  of  that  jumble  of  crags  and  forests  far  below 


APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY  107 

us.  Would  our  brakes  hold,  and  would  our  nerves  obey 
us  ?  Though  I  felt  cool,  I  admit  to  gripping  the  steering- 
wheel  harder  than  good  driving  required.  From  Toby's 
direction  came  a  funny  noise. 

"I  just  remembered  Mother's  last  words, "  she  ex- 
plained. 

We  both  laughed,  though  feebly,  at  the  perennial  joke. 

Night  has  the  effect  of  seeming  to  double  distances. 
At  the  pinnacle  of  this  crag  we  paused  a  second.  Be- 
low, we  looked  down  vast  depths  upon  the  points  of 
lesser  pinnacles,  jumbled  in  the  valley.  There  was  no 
bottom  to  the  Pit  directly  under  our  headlights.  Used  to 
scenery  with'  a  bottom  to  it,  however  remote,  we  had 
rather  a  prejudice  in  favor  of  it.  Beyond  the  radius  of 
our  lights  we  could  pierce  the  blackness  only  in  vague 
outlines.  Then  we  dropped  down,  taking  each  switch- 
back with  caution.  The  nose  of  the  car  swung  periodi- 
cally out  over  the  edge,  daring  our  brakes  to  go  the  inch 
more  which  meant  a  mile — downward.  One  loose  rock, 
of  which  there  were  so  many,  might  send  us  spinning, 
crashing  among  the  treetops  below.  But  why  harrow 
the  reader  unnecessarily?  It  must  be  evident  we  reached 
the  bottom  in  safety.  Yet  halfway  down  I  was  not  so 
sure  of  the  outcome,  for  a  spark  of  light  and  a  little 
click,  regular  and  ominous,  came  from  the  engine,  just 
when  the  grade  pitched  the  car  head-down.  I  took  the 
turns  with  my  heart  in  my  mouth.  When  we  reached 
fairly  level  ground  again  we  investigated.  It  was  only 
a  loose  wire,  connecting  with  the  cylinders,  but  a  little 
longer  descend  and  we  might  have  had  a  cross  circuit, 
— and  trouble. 

It  was  good  to  have  the  valley  come  up  to  us.    It  was 


io8  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

very  good  to  see  little  friendly  lights  twinkling  in  the 
vast  circle  of  the  hills.  The  lights  meant  the  Inn,  and 
our  day's  journey  ended.  The  host  welcomed  us,  rather 
astonished  that  two  Easterners  should  have  risked  that 
hill  at  night.  Had  there  been  any  other  way  we  should 
have  taken  it,  but  no  grassy  meadows  offered  where  we 
could  run  the  car  in  safety;  only  empty  chasms  or  per- 
pendicular cliffs.  Once  on  the  road  we  had  to  go  on. 
Then,  too,  we  preferred  the  hot  and  appetizing  food  of 
the  Inn  to  our  own  amateur  camp  cooking.  Food  is  a 
powerful  magnet. 

Toward  sunset  next  day  we  had  passed  beyond  the 
lake  of  cobalt  which  science  had  set  in  the  golden  circlet 
of  the  desert.  We  had  left  the  haunts  of  motors.  As  we 
rose  from  one  hilly  crest  to  the  next  higher,  we  met  only 
an  occasional  prospector,  afoot,  or  an  emigrant  from 
Utah  with  an  old-time  prairie  schooner  and  a  flock  of 
burros.  We  were  on  that  further  branch  of  the  T-shaped 
trail  named  Apache,  and  later  we  turned  due  north,  and 
left  it  for  mountain  ranges  of  sweeping  loveliness.  I 
cannot,  at  the  risk  of  boring,  write  of  mountains  without 
enthusiasm.  These  were  on  a  colossal  scale,  as  befits 
the  Rockies,  but  their  grandeur  did  not  repel.  They  were 
homey  mountains.  As  we  traveled  upward  over  the 
same  kind  of  shelf-road  with  which  the  Winkleman  trail 
had  made  us  so  quickly  familiar,  we  could  look  down 
upon  range  after  range,  their  blues  and  ochres  melting 
together  as  far  as  eye  could  reach. 

In  a  cup  of  these  hills,  yet  so  high  it  was  itself  on 
a  mountain,  the  road  forked  sharply,  each  branch  lead- 
ing straight  up  a  mountain,  and  each  seeming  well-nigh 
unconquerable.  Below  lay  a  little  mining  settlement  of 


APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY  109 

half  a  dozen  cabins.  At  the  juncture  a  sign-board  bore 
the  name  of  the  town  toward  which  we  were  traveling. 
It  was  an  excellent  sign-board,  plainly  marked.  Its  only 
draw-back  was  that  it  pointed  midway  between  the  two 
roads,  quite  impartially.  Toby  was  for  taking  the  right 
fork,  I  for  the  left.  We  argued  hotly  but  finally  Toby 
won,  and  we  took  the  right-hand  road.  Soon  the  mining 
camp  dropped  several  hundred  feet  below,  and  then  be- 
came a  dot.  Ahead,  the  road  circled  in  a  twenty-mile 
horse-shoe  on  the  inside  of  a  mountain  range,  seeming 
to  lead  miles  into  the  wilderness.  I  announced  that  Toby 
was  mistaken. 

"The  Mormon  said  to  take  the  right  turn,"  said  Toby, 
standing  to  her  guns. 

"And  we've  taken  half  a  dozen  right  turns  since  then," 
I  answered.  Now  the  problem  facing  us  was:  To  turn 
a  heavy  car  with  a  122  inch  wheel-base  around  on  a  steep 
twelve-foot  road  with  a  mountain  slope  on  one  side  and 
on  the  other,  sheer  precipice.  Often  in  nightmares  of 
late  I  had  found  myself  compelled  to  drive  down  Bright 
Angel  Trail  at  the  Grand  Canyon,  turn  at  Jacob's  Lad- 
der, and  ascend, — and  the  present  reality  was  hardly  less 
terrifying.  It  turned  out  later  that  Toby  was  right,  as 
she  always  was  when  she  should  have  been  wrong, — and 
we  could  have  been  spared  our  acrobatics.  But  we  should 
have  missed  Mr.  Kelly. 

We  made  the  turn.  I  never  want  to  try  it  again.  A 
few  inches  forward,  till  a  yawning  gulf  lay  under  our 
front  wheels ;  then  back  till  we  hit  a  steep  bank,  then  for- 
ward, down  grade  to  the  edge;  brakes,  reverse,  and  the 
fear  of  a  plunge  forward  between  release  of  brakes  and 
the  catch  of  the  reverse  gear.  We  made  half  a  dozen 


no  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

maneuvers  before  we  again  faced  the  misleading  sign- 
post. We  passed  the  mining  camp,  drove  up  the  left 
fork,  and  bumped  against  a  mountain  which  refused  to  be 
climbed. 

"You  see  I  was  right,"  said  Toby  smugly. 

Before  she  had  finished,  a  man  with  a  refulgent  smile 
came  running  up,  thrust  into  our  hands  a  visiting  card 
which  he  took  from  his  wallet,  and  shaking  our  hands 
enthusiastically  said,  "Glad  to  see  ye,  gurrls.  Kelly's 
my  name.  What's  yourn?  I'm  boss  of  the  mine  here. 
Come  on  out,  and  stay  to  supper.  Stay  all  night.  Stay 
a  week, — the  b'ys  will  be  tickled  t'  death.  You  can  have 
my  room, — I'll  bunk  wid  the  foreman.  I'm  f'rm  Provi- 
dence, Rhode  Island.  Been  in  the  Legislat'ur  twenty 
years.  Been  a  horse  jockey,  an'  an  inventor,  an'  foreman 
of  a  factory.  Makin'  my  everlastin'  fortune  in  this  mine 
just  now,  and  no  stock  to  sell.  Where  'ye  from?" 

"Boston,  now!  Well,  say,  ye're  a  long  ways  fr'm 
home.  Ye'll  have  to  stay,  neighbors  like  that.  We  got 
a  big  fat  cook,  two  hundred  and  fifty  she  weighs,  and  a 
crackerjack  with  the  eats,  and  she  says  tell  ye  she'll  never 
speak  to  you  agin  if  ye  don't  stay  to  supper." 

I  looked  wistfully  at  Toby.  We  had  been  warned 
we  might  not  get  through  to  Pine,  because  of  snow  drifts 
in  the  passes,  and  it  was  only  an  hour  to  dark,  over  twist- 
ing and  unknown  hill  roads,  but  our  recent  trapeze  work 
had  left  us  with  an  all-gone  feeling  at  the  belt.  If  we  did 
not  eat  now  we  might  go  hungry  till  morning.  We  de- 
cided not  to  renounce  the  friendship  of  the  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pound  crackerjack. 

Kelly  was  one  of  Nature's  enthusiasts,  but  he  had  un- 
derstated concerning  his  cook,  both  in  weight  and  pro- 


APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY  in 

ficiency.  All  of  her  three  hundred  odd  pounds  billowing 
and  undulating  in  the  bounds  of  a  starched  white  apron 
waddled  a  testimonial  to  her  skill.  When  Kelly  deli- 
cately left  us  under  her  chaperonage  she  overflowed  with 
joy. 

"Girls,  you  don't  know  what  a  treat  it  is  to  see  women- 
folks. I  been  here  all  winter,  the  only  woman  in  camp, 
and  I  could  die  with  homesickness." 

We  said  something  appreciative  of  the  beauty  of  the 
scenery.  She  sniffed. 

"This?     Say,  girls,  you  ought  to  see  God's  country!" 

"California?"  we  said  intelligently. 

"You  bet!"  answered  the  Native  Daughter.  "I  s'pose 
you're  headed  that  way?" 

"No, — "  weakly, —  "we  thought  we'd  see  Arizona 
first" 

"Well,  girls,  it's  lucky  you  met  me.  Now  I  can  lay 
out  a  trip  for  you  through  California  that  will  knock 
Arizona  silly.  There's  the  Yosemite, — and  the  Big 
Trees, — and  the  climate, — grandest  scenery  in  the  world, 
— and  San  Francisco.  After  you  reach  Needles,  you  get 
good  roads  all  the  way, — nothing  like  these.  My !  To 
think  you'd  'a  wasted  your  time  in  Arizona  if  I  hadn't 
met  you." 

"Yes,  indeed.     We  can't  be  grateful  enough." 

The  truth,  with  a  little  ingenuity,  always  serves.  At 
this  point  we  were  luckily  called  to  supper,  cooked  early 
for  our  convenience.  We  sat  between  Mr.  Kelly,  who 
leaped  lightly  from  ships  to  sealing  wax,  from  cabbages 
to  kings  in  a  jovial  torrent  of  brogue,  and  the  engineer 
of  the  mine.  The  latter  was  an  Englishman  well  past 
middle  age,  with  a  slight  cockney  accent,  apparently  self- 


ii2  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

educated  but  with  the  thoroughness  only  his  type  achieves. 
When  he  spoke  in  a  hesitating,  deprecating  way,  vastly 
unlike  Mr.  Kelly's  self-assured  flood,  he  exhibited  a  vast 
range  of  information,  correct,  unlike  Mr.  Kelly's  again, 
to  the  last  detail.  His  vague  brown  eyes,  the  iris  blue- 
rimmed,  cleared  and  shone  with  faith  when  in  a  matter- 
of-course  way  he  suddenly  spoke  of  the  "spirit  world," 
which  it  seems  was  very  near  to  him.  Fifty,  painfully 
ugly,  shabby  middle-class,  learned,  and  on  telepathic 
terms  with  ghosts,  he  piqued  curiosity,  as  a  man  who 
seemed  to  have  much  behind  and  little  before  him. 

Kelly,  on  the  other  hand,  was  a  man  of  futures,  the 
longer  and  riskier  the  better.  He  was  waiting  a  neces- 
sary month  or  two  for  the  mine  to  yield  him  and  its 
owners  an  immense  fortune, — "and  no  stock  to  sell." 
Arizona  was  uthe  greatest  country  in  the  world,"  and  this 
pocket  of  the  hills  the  finest  spot  in  Arizona.  The  "b'ys" 
who  were  expected  to  be  entranced  at  our  advent  were 
the  finest  in  the  United  States. 

"All  good  b'ys,"  he  proclaimed  while,  eyes  downcast, 
they  shoveled  huge  knifefuls  of  beans  to  conceal  their 
embarrassment,  "good  b'ys,  and  refined, — not  what  you 
usually  get  in  mining  camps.  You  won't  hear  them  speak 
a  wor'rd  before  you  not  fit  for  ladies." 

He  was  right,  there,  for  they  opened  not  their  mouths, 
except  to  fill  them,  while  the  boldest  mumbled  a  "pass 
the  butter!"  Yet,  without  vanity,  I  think  the  company 
of  "ladies"  did  give  them  a  kind  of  agonized  pleasure. 
When  we  left  they  watched  us  out  of  sight. 

"An'  d'ye  know  what  stopped  the  war?"  continued 
Kelly,  taking  a  jump  we  could  not  quite  follow.  "Ye 
thought  Wilson  did  it,  didn't  ye?  He  did  not.  It  was 


APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY   113 

copper.  Copper  did  it.  And  Kelly.  I  saw  how  things 
was  goin' — I  wint  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury,  an'  I 
says  to  him,  'McAdoo,'  I  says,  'Ye  know  as  well  as  meself 
that  this  war  has  to  stop.  An'  why?  Copper,'  I 
says, " 

The  inside  story  of  the  armistice  we  never  did  learn, 
for  an  interruption  came  in  the  shape  or  shapelessness  of 
the  Native  Daughter  bearing  a  four  layer  cake,  which  we 
hardly  finished  before  the  gathering  dark  warned  us  to 
leave.  We  could  barely  withstand  the  pressure  to  stay 
overnight,  to  stay  a  week,  or  a  month,  or  better, — "Come 
and  settle.  There's  land  enough;  ye  can  pick  y'r  spot, 
and  I'll  have  the  b'ys  put  up  a  bungalow  f  r  ye.  They'll 
be  tickled  to  death  to  do  it."  As  a  sop  to  propriety  he 
added,  "Me  old  woman's  coming  out  next  week." 

"It's  good  to  see  women,"  said  the  little  engineer  as 
he  quietly  shook  hands.  His  vague  eyes  looked  more 
haunted  than  ever.  "It — it  gets  lonesome  here." 

"Give  my  love  to  California,"  screamed  the  cook,  tak' 
ing  our  destination  for  granted. 

As  we  gave  one  last  look  at  those  hospitable  miners, 
friendly  as  dogs  who  have  been  locked  in  an  empty  house, 
and  a  last  look  over  the  wonderful  landscape  rolling  be- 
low us  for  miles,  we  too  felt  a  pang  at  leaving. 

"We'll  stop  in  on  our  way  back,"  we  promised. 

Toward  dark,  we  began  to  encounter  snow  drifts. 
The  first  were  easily  passed,  but  as  we  climbed  higher 
and  the  night  thickened  we  found  each  drift  a  little  harder 
to  conquer,  though  the  mild  air  was  hardly  tempered 
with  frost. 

Toby,  a  beginner  at  Galveston,  could  already  manage 
almost  any  ordinary  road,  but  not  until  later  did  she 


ii4  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

become  experienced  enough  for  sky-climbing.  Conse- 
quently I  took  the  canyons,  and  for  two  days  there  had 
been  little  else.  By  ten,  when  one  of  the  neat  state  sign- 
posts told  us  we  were  but  five  miles  from  the  Goodfellow 
Ranch,  our  destination,  I  felt  nearly  exhausted,  ner- 
vously and  physically.  But  the  home  stretch  proved  worst 
of  all.  It  led  across  a  prairie  to  a  descent  encourag- 
ingly marked  "Private  road.  Dangerous.  Take  at  your 
own  risk." 

Well,  to  reach  our  bed  that  night  we  had  to  take  it.  In 
a  moment  we  were  nose-diving  down  another  canyon, 
which  in  daylight  was  only  moderately  terrifying,  but  at 
night  seemed  bottomless.  It  was  Fish  Creek  over  again, 
with  two  irritating  additions, — one,  a  slimy,  skiddy 
adobe  road  full  of  holes  and  strewn  with  boulders;  and 
two,  a  ridiculous  baby  jack-rabbit,  who,  frightened  by 
our  headlights,  leaped  just  ahead  of  us  in  the  ruts.  He 
would  neither  hurry  nor  remove  himself.  At  times  his 
life  seemed  directly  pitted  against  ours,  yet  we  could  not 
bring  ourselves  to  run  over  his  soft  little  body.  It  was 
the  last  straw.  When  the  sickening  distance  down  the 
canyon  lessened,  and  we  saw  the  cheery  lights  of  the 
ranch  through  the  fir  trees,  I  nearly  cried  with  relief. 

"Will  you  come  in, — you  must  be  tired,"  said  a  pretty 
Scotch  voice.  A  little  woman  held  a  lantern.  "Two 
ladies!  We  saw  your  lights,  but  never  dreamed  you'd 
be  coming  down  in  the  dark.  There's  many  that  think 
the  road  none  too  safe  in  the  day." 

Her  remark  was  balm  to  my  chagrin  at  having  let  a 
jack-rabbit  unnerve  me.  All  our  lives,  it  seemed,  had 
been  spent  driving  down  the  edge  of  hair-raising  preci- 
pices in  the  dark;  to  be  free  of  them  at  last,  to  enter  a 


APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY   115 

warm,  lighted,  snug  cottage,  where  a  friendly  Papago 
servant  led  us  to  the  cleanest,  most  luxurious  of  beds, — 
this  was  heaven. 

Natural  Bridge  can  be  reached  two  ways  from  the 
world, — south  from  Flagstaff  ninety  miles,  or  by  the 
Apache  Trail  from  Globe  or  Tucson.  The  northern  road 
lay  under  twenty  feet  of  snow,  and  this  while  a  huge  apri- 
cot tree, — the  oldest  in  the  state,— bloomed  pink,  and 
the  alfalfa  floor  of  the  little  canyon  was  varnished  with 
emerald.  Next  morning  we  looked  on  this  budding  and 
blossoming  world,  hedged  in  with  red  cliffs  and  lapis 
lazuli  hills.  A  few  neat  cottages  and  farm  buildings 
nestled  together, — but  where  was  the  bridge,  large  enough 
we  had  been  told,  to  hide  three  or  four  of  the  Virginian 
variety  under  its  arch? 

They  laughed  at  our  queston.  It  is  the  standing  joke 
at  the  Goodfellow  ranch.  They  pointed  to  the  five  acre 
field  of  level  alfalfa,  edged  with  a  prosperous  vineyard. 
"You  are  on  the  bridge." 

Bewildered,  we  walked  for  five  minutes  to  the  edge  of 
the  little  level  ranch  surrounded  by  high  pinon-covered 
walls  on  all  sides.  Still  no  bridge.  At  our  feet  they 
showed  us  a  small  hole  in  the  ground,  a  foot  deep.  Look- 
ing through  it  we  saw  a  steep  chasm  with  a  tangle  of  cac- 
tus and  trees,  and  at  the  very  bottom  a  clear,  swift 
stream. 

Unknown  years  ago  some  strange  explosion  had  taken 
place  through  this  tiny  vent,  creating  the  powerful  arch 
beneath,  which  at  this  point  seemed  perilously  thin,  yet 
supported  houses,  cattle  and  men.  At  a  crisis  the 
accidents  of  Nature,  like  those  of  men,  crystallize,  and 
thereafter  become  unalterable.  This  tiny  peep-hole, 


ii6  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

whim  of  a  casual  meeting  of  gases,  would  survive  a  thou- 
sand of  our  descendants.  This  was  only  one  of  a  hun- 
dred spectacles  Arizona  was  staging  at  the  time.  Think 
what  a  fuss  the  San  Franciscans  made  of  their  little  erup- 
tion in  1906, — and  yet  Arizona  managed  an  exposition  of 
fireworks  back  in  the  dark  ages  compared  to  which  San 
Francisco's  was  like  a  wet  firecracker.  But  Arizona 
showed  poor  business  judgment  in  letting  all  her  Grand 
Canyons,  natural  bridges  and  volcanoes  erupt  before 
the  invention  of  jitneys,  railroads,  motion  pictures 
and  press  agents.  Naturally  her  geologic  display  at- 
tracted no  attention,  and  today  you  can  come  upon  freaks 
of  nature  casually  anywhere  in  the  state,  of  which  nobody 
ever  heard. 

Even  Natural  Bridge,  the  widest  of  its  kind  in  the 
world,  is  unknown  to  most  Arizonans;  many  have  only 
vaguely  heard  of  it  or  confuse  it  with  the  Rainbow  Bridge 
in  Utah.  Yet  it  is  the  strangest  jumble  of  geologic 
freaks  in  any  equal  area,  outside  of  Yellowstone. 

Standing  under  the  arch,  so  broad  and  irregularly 
shaped  that  at  no  point  can  it  be  photographed  to  show 
adequately  that  it  is  a  bridge,  you  are  really  on  the  ground 
floor  of  a  four-story  apartment  of  Nature's  building. 
The  first  floor  is  laid  with  a  tumbling  brown  stream, 
flecked  with  white,  and  tiled  with  immense  porphyry 
colored  boulders  of  fantastic  shapes.  Exotic  shrubs  of 
tangly  cactus,  huge  spotted  eucalyptus,  and  firs,  and  myr- 
iads of  dainty  flowers  dress  the  vestibule.  Pools  and 
stone  tubs  sculptured  by  Father  Time  invite, — oh,  how 
they  invite  to  bathe!  The  floor  is  speckled  and  flecked 
with  sunlight  which  filters  under  the  arch.  Great  rocks 
seem  to  float  on  the  stream,  mysteriously  lighted,  like 


GREAT  ROCKS  SEEM  TO  FLOAT  ON  THE  STREAM,  MYSTERIOUSLY  LIGHTED, 
LIKE  BOCKLIN'S  ISLE  OF  THE  DEAD. 


APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY   117 

Bocklin's  Island  of  the  Dead.  For  half  a  mile  you  push 
through  stubborn  mesquite,  wade  and  leap  from  rock  to 
stream,  finding  a  picture  at  every  turn. 

Then  climbing  sixty  or  more  perpendicular  feet  on  an 
amateur  ladder,  whose  stoutness  is  its  only  reassuring 
feature,  built  by  the  discoverer  of  the  Bridge,  Scotch  old 
Dave  Goodfellow,  you  reach  the  second  floor,  devoted  to 
one  room  apartments  hollowed  by  drippings  of  age-old 
streams,  and  slippery  with  crusted  lime.  The  cliff  is 
honeycombed  with  caves  in  which  stalactite  and  stalag- 
mite meet,  resembling  twisted  cedar  trunks.  Wolves  and 
coyotes  have  made  their  homes  here,  and  even  somnolent 
grizzlies;  in  the  smaller  niches  on  warm  spring  days  one 
has  to  take  care  that  one's  fingers  do  not  grasp  a  twining 
mass  of  sluggish  rattlesnake.  In  one  of  these  caves  the 
human  rattlesnake,  Geronimo,  hid  for  a  month  in  the 
Apache  revolt  of  the  nineties,  while  the  United  States 
scouts  scoured  Arizona  to  find  him,  and  a  story  and  a 
half  above,  the  canny  Goodfellow  hid  in  his  little  one- 
room  cabin,  each  fearing  discovery  by  the  other. 

Above  this  floor  is  a  mezzanine  with  another  nest  of 
caverns.  Three  sets  of  ladders  riveted  to  a  vertical 
shelf  of  rock  lead  you  to  the  most  interesting  cave  of 
them  all,  where  the  fairy  tale  comes  true  of  the  wizard 
who  had  to  climb  a  mountain  of  glass.  Toby  knows  no 
fear  of  aerial  heights,  so  I  had  to  pretend  not  to.  A 
grandnephew  of  the  elder  Goodfellow  led  us  where  I 
hope  never  to  return.  We  entered  through  a  hole  just 
wide  enough  to  admit  our  bodies,  and  barely  high  enough 
to  stand  upright  in.  Then  up  a  grade  of  40  per  cent  over 
a  limestone  surface  glassy  from  age-long  accumulations  of 
dripping  chemicals,  we  wriggled  flat  on  our  backs,  with 


n8  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

feet  braced  against  the  ceiling  to  prevent  our  slipping  out 
of  the  cave.  Only  a  bat  could  have  felt  completely  non- 
chalant under  such  circumstances.  Harry  Goodfellow 
worked  himself  along  swiftly  and  easily,  with  an  ex- 
traordinary hitch,  hands  and  feet  braced  against  the 
ceiling  of  the  cave.  After  him,  less  expertly,  we  came, 
using  his  ankles  for  ladder  rungs,  and  clinging  to  them 
frantically.  How  I  prayed,  not  altruistically,  that  his 
ankles  were  not  weak !  My  imagination  took  the  wrong 
moment  to  visualize  his  grip  failing,  and  his  sudden 
descent  out  of  the  cave  and  over  the  cliff,  with  Toby  and 
me  each  frantically  clinging  to  an  ankle.  However  we 
made  the  climb  up  safely,  but  going  down  was  worse. 
I  wonder  why  human  nature  never  remembers,  when  it 
climbs  to  dizzy  heights,  that  the  go-down  will  be  dizzier 
still. 

I  daresay  I  should  yet  be  mid-way  down  that  glass- 
bottomed  cave,  with  feet  barnacled  to  its  ceiling,  had  I  not 
realized  how  uncomfortable  life  would  be  spent  in  that 
position.  Therefore  I  slid, — and  jumped,  hoping  the 
force  of  my  descent  would  not  bounce  me  out  of  the 
narrow  entrance  into  a  clump  of  cactus  sixty  feet  below. 
What  happened  to  the  others  at  that  moment  I  did  not 
care. 

In  caves  still  higher  up  beneath  the  bridge  we  dis- 
covered bits  of  baskets  and  pottery  fashioned  by  ubiqui- 
tous cave-dwellers  a  thousand  years  ago.  Then  turning 
a  corner,  we  came  upon  a  fairy  grotto,  a  shallow  rock- 
basin  filled  with  shining  water ;  walls  covered  with  moss 
and  glossy  maiden  hair  fern,  over  which  a  sparkling  cas- 
cade fell.  All  this,  built  out  like  a  Juliet  balcony  high 
over  the  babbling  brook. 


NATURAL  BRIDGE,  PINE,  ARIZONA. 


APACHE  TRAIL  AND  TONTO  VALLEY    119 

From  here  it  was  only  a  short  scramble  back  to  the 
ranch-house,  the  barn,  gardens  and  orchards  on  floor 
three,  from  which  a  steep  canyon  road  leads  to  the  upper 
world.  Years  ago  when  Dave  Goodfellow,  hermit  and 
prospector,  built  his  shack  here  the  undergrowth  was  so 
wild  that  a  calf  who  wandered  into  the  brush  and  died 
within  ten  feet  of  the  house  was  not  found  till  a  month 
after.  Now  the  tangle  has  been  smoothed  and  planted  to 
alfalfa.  Under  the  huge  fruit  trees  he  planted,  meanders 
a  brook  edged  with  mint,  violets  and  water-cress.  Visitors 
drop  down  only  occasionally,  but  they  are  always  sure  of 
good  food,  a  clean  bed,  and  a  whole-hearted  Scotch  wel- 
come. When  news  finally  seeped  in  to  us  that  spring  had 
melted  the  snow-packed  mountain  roads,  leaving  them  dry 
enough  to  travel,  we  departed  with  regret.  "Pa"  Good- 
fellow  built  us  a  food  box  out  of  two  empty  gasoline  tins, 
"Ma"  Goodfellow  gave  us  a  loaf  of  fresh  bread,  a  jar 
of  apricot  preserves,  and  a  wet  bag  full  of  water-cress, 
which  provided  manna  for  two  hot,  dusty  days. 

Spring  had  wrought  marvels  to  our  thrice  traveled 
Apache  Trail.  The  hills  were  gay  with  blue  lupin,  the 
color  of  shadows  in  that  hot  land.  The  valleys  blazed 
with  the  yellow  blossoms  of  the  prickly  holly  bush, 
sweeter  in  odor  than  jasmine.  Dozens  of  times  we 
stopped  to  collect  the  myriad  varieties  of  spring  flowers, 
more  prodigal  than  I  have  seen  anywhere  else  in  the 
world;  poppies,  red  snap-dragons,  Indian  paint  brush, 
the  blue  loco-weed  which  gives  permanent  lunacy  to  the 
cattle  and  horses  which  eat  it;  little  delicate  desert  blooms 
like  our  bluets  and  grass  flowers,  shading  from  blue  to 
white,  and  daisies  of  a  dozen  kinds,  yellow,  orange,  yel- 


120  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

low  with  brown  centers,  with  yellow  centers,  and  giant 
marguerites. 

At  the  mining  camp  we  stopped  for  a  how-d'y-do  with 
the  Kellys.  "The  old  woman,"  who  had  arrived  from 
Providence  recently,  was  brought  out  to  meet  us.  A 
short,  asthmatic  and  completely  suburban  lady,  the  beau- 
ties of  the  lovely  scene  rolling  away  to  the  horizon  left 
her  blank.  She  still  panted  in  short  gasps  from  the 
terrors  of  the  Apache  Trail. 

"Awful!"  she  told  us.  "Awful!  I  was  so  scared  I 
thought  I'd  die.  Straight  up  and  down.  Straight  up  and 
down.  My  heart  was  in  my  mouth  all  the  trip.  I'm 
homesick.  Look  at  this  place, — no  stores  and  no  neigh- 
bors— not  a  bit  like  Providence." 

Her  dampening  presence  seemed  a  little  to  have 
affected  her  husband's  effervescence.  However,  he  still 
had  the  finest  mine  in  Arizona,  and  Arizona  was  the  finest 
state  in  the  Union. 

"She'll  get  used  to  it  by  and  by,"  he  said.  "Horizon- 
tal fever, — that's  what  the  old  lady's  got.  Ought  to 
heard  her  squeal  on  them  turns." 

They  pressed  us  to  stay  over  night. 

"You  ain't  heard  how  I  stopped  the  war,"  said  Kelly. 

But  we  regretfully  said  we  must  push  on.  So,  loaded 
with  specimens  of  ore  and  good  wishes,  we  sped  away. 


CHAPTER  XI 

FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH 

IT  was  one  of  those  days  when  everything  goes  wrong, 
and  it  fell  on  Friday  the  thirteenth. 

Three  days  earlier,  on  reaching  Globe,  we  learned  we 
could  not  take  the  direct  road  to  Santa  Fe  without  char- 
tering a  steamer  to  ferry  us  across  the  untamed  Gila. 
Most  roads  in  Arizona  are  amphibious;  to  be  ready  for 
all  emergencies,  a  motor  traveling  in  that  region  of  sur- 
prises should  be  equipped  with  skates,  snow-shoes  and 
web-feet.  As  our  chosen  road  lay  under  some  eight  feet 
of  river,  we  were  obliged  to  make  a  slight  detour  of  five 
hundred  miles,  or  half  the  distance  from  Boston  to 
Chicago.  So  we  retraced  the  dizzy  Winkleman  trail, 
far  less  dizzy  since  we  had  become  indifferent  to  tight- 
rope performances,  passed  through  Tucson  without  at- 
tracting attention  from  the  Sheriff  of  Pima  County,  and 
were  rewarded  for  our  digression  by  a  sunset  drive  over 
the  famous  Tucson-Bisbee  route,  where  a  perfect  road, 
built  by  convict  labor,  combined  with  perfect  scenery  to 
make  our  crossing  of  the  Continental  Divide  for  the 
dozenth  time  an  event. 

There  are  about  as  many  Continental  Divides  in  the 
West  as  beds  in  which  Washington  slept  in  the  East.  I 
first  crossed  the  Divide  somewhere  up  in  Montana,  and 
thinking  it  the  only  one  of  its  kind,  I  was  properly 
thrilled.  But  later  I  met  another  in  Wyoming,  and  in  the 
Southwest  they  seemed  to  crop  up  everywhere. 

121 


122  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

We  were  soon  glad  chance  had  sent  us  over  the  route 
we  had  discarded  when  we  first  entered  Arizona.  It  was 
a  mellow,  gracious  loveliness  we  passed,  looking  down 
from  the  top  of  the  world  on  fields  of  silvery  pampas,  on 
stretches  of  velvet-brown  grazing  country,  misted  over 
with  moon-white  and  sun-yellow  poppies,  and  patches 
of  wild  heliotrope  whose  intoxicating  scent  tempted  us 
to  frequent  stops.  Then  on  again  to  overlook  a  magnifi- 
cence of  blue  and  ochre  canyons,  down  which  we  swooped 
and  circled  into  Bisbee. 

Many-terraced  as  a  Cornish  village,  Bisbee  straddles 
a  canyon  and  climbs  two  mountains  in  its  effort  to  ac- 
commodate the  workers  who  swarm  its  tortuous  streets, 
and  spend  their  days  in  its  huge  copper  mines.  When  Bis- 
bee finds  a  mountain  in  its  way,  down  goes  the  mountain, 
carried  off  by  great  steam  shovels  working  day  and  night. 
But  always  beyond,  another  ring  of  hills  holds  her  pris- 
oner. In  the  town's  center  lies  a  tiny,  shut-in  square  into 
which  streets  of  various  levels  trickle.  Here  at  any  day 
or  any  hour,  agitators  of  one  sort  or  another  violently 
harangue  small  groups.  There  is  always  at  this  spot  an 
air  of  unexploded  tenseness.  No  wonder!  Precious 
minerals  imprisoned  by  Nature, — machinery  fighting 
Mother  Earth, — labor  resisting  capital, — conservatism 
against  lawless  radicalism, — greed  against  greed, — all 
braced  to  hold  their  own  and  push  the  other  down;  all 
pent  in  by  the  enclosing  hills,  and  pressed  down  to  the 
narrow  confines  of  the  little  Plaza.  No  wonder  the 
steam  from  these  conflicting  forces  has  at  times  blown  the 
lid  into  the  air. 

From  this  Plaza,  during  the  war,  gathered  the  citizens 
of  Bisbee,  and  escorted  to  the  Mexican  border  certain 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  123 

obstructionists  claiming  to  be  striking  in  the  cause  of 
labor.  The  suddenness  of  their  taking  off  has  been  criti- 
cized, but  its  effectiveness  was  admirable.  In  the  in- 
formality of  the  grim-purposed  patriots  who  acted  as 
body-guards  on  that  dusty  march  south,  one  sees  the  old 
West,  which  emerged  into  law  and  order  through  similar 
bands  of  exasperated  citizens. 

Friday  the  thirteenth,  the  date  of  our  own  exit  from 
that  picturesue  and  turbulent  town,  opened  inauspiciously. 
A  flat  tire,  incurred  overnight,  caused  an  hour's  delay  at 
the  start.  While  we  breakfasted  at  the  Copper  Queen, 
it  again  lost  courage,  and  we  had  no  choice  but  to  thump 
downhill  to  the  garage,  near  the  great  Copper  Queen 
mine  which  daily  levels  mountains  and  fills  up  valleys. 
But  our  spare  tire  was  found  to  be  locked,  and  the 
key  was  in  one  of  our  seven  suitcases.  All  work  ceased 
till  by  a  miracle  of  memory  we  recalled  that  the  key 
was  in  a  coat  pocket,  the  coat  was  in  a  suitcase,  the 
suitcase  in  the  bottom  of  the  trunk, — but  where  was  the 
trunk  key?  More  delay  while  we  both  searched  our  over- 
flowing handbags, — and  nothing  embarrasses  a  woman 
more  than  to  have  half  a  dozen  men  watch  her  futile 
dives  into  her  handbag.  At  last  it  appeared,  and  in  due 
time,  when  we  had  wrestled  like  born  baggage-smashers 
with  the  heavy  suitcases,  opened  the  bottom  one  and 
found  the  key,  repacked  the  suitcase,  put  it  back,  lifted  the 
other  four  on  top,  locked  the  trunk,  and  replaced  the 
other  baggage,  we  unlocked  the  spare  tire.  It  did  not 
budge  from  the  rim.  Earlier  that  luckless  morning,  I  had 
backed  into  an  unexpected  telegraph  pole,  jamming  the 
spare  tire  braces  out  of  shape.  So  the  garage  men  went 
back  and  forth  on  futile  errands,  as  garage  men  will,  pick- 


i24  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

ing  tools  up  and  dropping  them  again  with  an  air  of 
satisfied  achievement.  Finally  a  young  Samson  came  to 
the  rescue,  bending  the  tire  into  place  with  his  bare 
hands,  and  after  that  they  took  only  an  hour  to  change 
the  tires.  With  the  sun  high  in  front  of  us,  we  drove 
through  the  smoke  and  fumes  of  the  mines,  past  pretty 
suburbs,  into  the  open  plateau  leading  to  Douglas.  We 
expected  to  be  in  Deming  that  night. 

The  mountains  and  canyons  of  yesterday  subsided  into 
a  broad  plain,  with  a  poplar-bordered  canal  trickling 
prettily  through  it.  At  noon  we  sighted  Douglas,  a  city 
of  smoke-stacks  simmering  in  a  fog  of  coal  gas.  A  once- 
good  macadam  road  wound  into  an  unsightly  group  of 
smelters  and  huge  slag  heaps, — the  usual  backdoor  en- 
trance of  a  Western  town, — and  suddenly  reformed  into 
a  main  street,  imposing  with  buildings  so  new  they  looked 
ill  at  ease  among  the  old-settler  lunch  shacks  and  ex- 
saloons.  Side  streets  beginning  bravely  from  the  new 
electric  light  pillars,  became  disheartened  at  the  second 
block,  and  were  smothered  in  sand  at  the  third. 

To  crown  a  banal  hobby  with  the  height  of  banality, 
I  have  for  years  amused  myself  wherever  I  may  be  by 
collecting  postcards  of  Main  Street  looking  South,  or 
North,  depending  on  the  location  of  the  public  library 
and  the  fire  station.  Every  orthodox  postcard  artist  be- 
gins with  Main  Street.  An  extra  charm  to  Main  Street 
looking  South  in  Douglas  lay  in  its  crossing  the  border 
and  fizzling  out  into  Mexico.  Each  time  we  had  skirted 
the  border,  Mexico  had  beckoned  alluringly,  tempting  us 
to  discover  what  lay  behind  her  drop  curtain  of  monoto- 
nous blue  and  brown. 

A  little  band  of  Mexican  Indians,  clad  in  the  rainbow, 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  125 

and  making  big  eyes  at  the  wonders  of  this  gringo  me- 
tropolis, staged  a  gaudy  prologue.  "They  say  you  can't 
get  into  Mexico  without  a  passport,"  mused  Toby. 

"We  might  as  well  find  out  and  be  done  with  it,"  said  I. 

A  half  mile  led  us  to  a  row  of  government  tents,  fol- 
lowed by  several  buildings, — the  first  a  low,  wooden 
house,  the  second  a  neat,  almost  imposing  two-story 
brick  affair.  Beyond  was  a  smaller  group,  which  we  de- 
cided was  the  Mexican  customs-house. 

A  long  man  untangled  himself  from  a  couple  of  porch 
chairs,  and  sauntered  out  to  the  road,  as  we  whizzed 
past  the  first  cottage.  He  shouted  something  and  held 
up  his  hand,  but  we  failed  to  catch  what  he  said.  A  mo- 
ment later  we  reached  the  fine  looking  brick  house.  A 
swarm  of  dark-complexioned  gentlemen  speaking  an  ex- 
citable language  rushed  out  and  surrounded  our  car. 
Toby  gave  a  sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"They  said  you  couldn't  get  in  without  a  passport," 
said  she. 

We  were  in  Mexico.  We  could  gather  so  much  from 
the  dazed  attitude  of  the  U.  S.  official,  who  stood  en- 
veloped in  our  dust,  staring  after  us,  but  still  more  from 
the  flood  of  questions,  increasingly  insistent,  which  came 
from  the  bandit's  chorus  surrounding  us.  They  seemed 
to  be  asking  for  something, — possibly  our  passports. 
Looking  ahead,  Mexico  didn't  seem  worth  our  while. 
We  saw  only  bare  brown  hills,  sand  and  cactus.  Per- 
haps, like  Toby's  namesake,  we  had  better  leave  before 
being  kicked  out.  I  displayed  our  camera. 

"Take  a  picture?  Turn  round?  Go  back?"  said  I 
in  purest  Mexican. 

The    bandit's    chorus    gathered    in    an    interested    if 


126  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

puzzled  group  about  the  camera,  and  looked  as  if  they 
were  waiting  for  me  to  do  a  trick  proving  that  the  hand 
is  quicker  than  the  eye.  After  a  few  repetitions,  aided 
by  liberal  gestures,  they  got  our  meaning  and  laughed, 
showing  dazzling  sets  of  teeth. 

"Take  your  pictures?"  we  added,  at  this  sign  of  clem- 
ency. The  Latin  in  them  rejoiced  at  our  tribute  to  their 
beauty.  Two  senoritas  coming  all  the  way  from  the 
Estados  Unidos,  passportless,  braving  the  wrath  of  Car- 
ranza  entirely  because  the  gringoes  were  not  handsome 
enough  to  snap !  They  straightened  their  uniforms,  and 
curled  their  mustaches  and  flashed  their  teeth  so  bril- 
liantly that  Toby  had  to  use  the  smallest  diaphragm  of 
her  kodak.  Before  they  could  unpose  themselves,  we 
were  back  in  the  United  States.  They  started  after,  as 
if  to  assess  us  for  ransom,  or  something,  but  too  late. 

The  U.  S.  official  met  us.  "Why  didn't  you  stop  when 
I  signaled?" 

uWe  didn't  see  you.  We  thought  the  brick  building 
was  the  United  States  customs, — it's  so  much  grander 
than  yours." 

"Well,  you're  in  luck,"  he  said.  "They  could  a  held 
you  there  for  months,  confiscated  your  baggage,  and 
made  things  pretty  unpleasant  generally.  They're  doing 
it  all  the  time,  under  the  name  of  official  business.  I  tell 
you,  I  was  scared  when  I  saw  you  go  through  there." 

Grateful  to  him  for  taking  this  humane  view  rather 
than  arresting  us,  we  said  good-by  and  went  our  way,  ex- 
hilarated at  having  triumphed  over  the  custom  depart- 
ments of  two  nations  in  one  short  hour.  It  offset  the 
morning's  gloom,  and  the  two  horrible  sandwiches  (fried 
egg)  with  which  Douglas  had  affronted  our  digestions. 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  127 

At  three  o'clock  we  reached  Rodeo,  which  means 
"round-up."  We  should  have  been  there  at  ten.  The 
town  faced  the  desert,  and  seemed  permanently  depressed 
at  its  outlook.  It  contained  a  few  Mexican  shanties,  a 
garage  and  general  store,  and  a  poison-green  architec- 
tural crime  labeled  "Rooms,"  surrounded  by  a  field  reek- 
ing with  dead  cattle.  Even  our  Optimist,  when  he  laid 
out  our  route,  had  exclaimed,  "If  your  night's  stop  is 
Rodeo,  Lord  help  you!"  The  next  town,  Deming,  lay  a 
hundred  miles  beyond,  with  no  settlement  between.  We 
looked  once  at  the  hotel,  bought  gas  at  fifty  cents  the  gal- 
lon, and  pushed  on. 

Whether  we  would  reach  Deming  that  night,  we  had 
no  idea.  Nearly  a  day,  as  desert  travel  goes,  lay  between 
us  and  food,  drink  and  shelter.  We  had  an  orange  apiece, 
and  our  folding  tent,  stove  and  lantern.  We  had  a  guide- 
book which,  to  escape  a  libel  suit,  I  shall  call  "Keyes* 
Good  Road  Book,"  though  it  was  neither  a  good  road- 
book nor  a  good-road  book.  We  had  an  abounding  faith 
in  guardian  angels.  Lastly,  we  had  Toby's  peculiar  gift 
at  reading  guide-books,  whereby  she  selects  a  page  at 
random,  regardless  of  our  route,  telescopes  paragraphs 
together,  skips  a  line  here  and  there,  and  finishes  in  an- 
other state. 

For  this  reason,  as  I  pointed  out  with  some  heat,  we 
took  a  road  which  led  fourteen  jolty  miles  out  of  our  way. 
It  came  out  that  Toby  had  been  reading  the  Colorado 
section.  So  chastened  was  she  by  this  misadventure  that 
at  «the  next  doubtful  corner,  where  a  windmill  marked 
two  forks,  she  kept  her  nose  glued  to  the  page  and  read 
with  meticulous  faithfulness,  "Pass  wind-mill  to  the  left." 

Now  the  left  led  through  a  muddy  water-hole,  while  an 


128  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

excellent  road  apparently  trailed  to  the  right  of  the  wind- 
mill. 

"Left?"  I  inquired,  with  pointed  skepticism,  "or 
right?" 

She  peeked  again  into  the  guidebook,  and  answered 
firmly,  "Left!" 

Toby  was  right  for  once,  but  she  had  chosen  the  mo- 
ment to  be  right  when  the  guidebook  was  wrong,  which 
entirely  canceled  her  score.  I  drove  into  the  chuck-hole, 
— and  stayed  there.  The  hole  was  V  shaped,  two  feet 
deep  at  the  point,  and  shelved  so  steeply  that  our  spare 
tires  made  a  barrier  against  its  edge  when  we  tried  to 
back  out.  We  were  following  Horace  Greeley's  advice 
literally.  We  had  gone  West,  and  now  we  were  settling 
down  with  the  country.  We  settled  to  our  running  board, 
then  to  our  hubs,  and  then  over  them.  It  was  the  more 
exasperating  because  our  car  was  immersed  in  the  only 
water  hole  within  a  hundred  miles. 

We  got  out  and  surveyed  the  road  to  the  right.  It 
proved  to  be  an  excellent  detour,  which  a  few  yards 
further  joined  the  left  fork.  This  was  the  last  straw.  I 
left  Toby,  who  was  trying  to  redeem  her  criminal  rec- 
titude by  busying  herself  with  the  jack,  and  went  out  hat- 
less  into  the  scorching  desert,  like  a  Robert  Hichens 
heroine.  My  objective  was  not  Oblivion,  but  the  cross- 
roads two  miles  back,  where  with  luck  I  might  still  hail  a 
passing  car. 

Though  the  sun  was  low,  the  heat  drove  down  scorch- 
ingly.  Only  the  necktie  I  tied  about  my  forehead  saved 
me  from  sunstroke.  It  was  bright  green,  and  must  Have 
made  me  look  like  an  Apache ;  I  had  the  consciousness  of 
being  appropriately  garbed.  At  the  crossroad  half  an 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  129 

hour's  wait  brought  no  car  to  the  rescue.  Night  was  too 
near  for  anyone  with  commonsense  to  start  across  that 
uncharted  waste.  Obviously  I  could  not  wait  longer, 
leaving  poor  Toby  to  fish  disconsolately,  as  I  had  last 
glimpsed  her,  in  the  mud.  Obviously,  too,  if  I  returned 
nobody  would  know  of  our  plight,  and  I  should  have  my 
four-mile  walk  for  nothing. 

Looking  aimlessly  for  help  in  this  dilemma,  my  eye 
caught  a  scrap  of  a  poster  on  a  fence  rail,  which  savagely 
and  in  minute  pieces,  I  tore  down  and  scattered  to  the 
desert.  The  poster  read,  "Keyes'  Good  Road  Book.  It 
Takes  You  Where  You  Want  to  Go." 

Heaven  knows  neither  I  nor  Toby,  with  all  her  faults, 
wanted  to  land  in  that  chuck-hole.  After  I  tore  the  pos- 
ter, I  wished  I  had  saved  it  to  inscribe  a  message  to  the 
passerby.  "Well,  take  your  medicine,"  thought  I.  "You 
have  no  right  to  get  into  any  situation  you  can't  get  out 
of.  Think  of  David  Balfour  and  Admirable  Crichton 
and  Swiss  Family  Robinson  and  Robinson  Crusoe.  What, 
for  instance,  would  Robinson  Crusoe  do?" 

Undoubtedly  he  would  have  found  a  way  out.  I  only 
had  to  think  constructively,  putting  myself  in  his  place. 
The  thought  alone  was  stimulating.  Gifted  with  omnis- 
cience in  hydrostatics  and  mechanics,  he  would  probably 
have  skinned  a  few  dead  cattle,  with  which  the  desert 
reeked,  made  a  rope,  fastened  it  about  the  car's  body, 
looped  it  over  the  windmill,  and  hoisted  it  free, — and 
been  half  way  to  Deming  by  this  time.  As  for  that  copy- 
cat Mrs.  Swiss  Family  Robinson,  she  would  certainly 
have  produced  a  pull-me-out  from  her  insufferable  work- 
bag. 

How  would  Crusoe  have  left  a  message  without  pencil 


1 30  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

or  paper?  I  knew.  Collecting  handfuls  of  large  white 
stones, — white,  because  darkness  was  imminent,  I  ar- 
ranged them  at  the  crossroads  in  letters  two  feet  long, 
reading, 

2  ML 

WINDMILL 

HELP! 

I  added  an  arrow  to  point  the  direction.  And  then,  to 
make  sure  that  my  sign  was  noticed,  I  placed  a  few  sharp 
stones  in  the  ruts.  These  would  probably  puncture  his 
tire,  and  in  looking  for  the  cause,  he  would  observe  our 
appeal  and  come  to  our  rescue.  It  took  a  long  while  to 
collect  enough  white  stones  to  make  the  sign,  but  when 
I  had  finished  I  felt  much  elated,  and  more  kindly  toward 
Toby  for  reading  the  guide  book  right  when  she  should 
have  read  it  wrong.  It  was  cooler  walking  back,  though 
my  tongue  was  swollen  with  thirst.  Our  canteen  had 
displayed  a  leak  only  yesterday,  and  we  had  tossed  it  into 
the  sagebrush. 

At  the  windmill  I  found  the  car  partly  jacked  up,  so 
that  she  careened  drunkenly  to  one  side,  but  her  right 
dashboard  was  now  above  water.  Toby's  skirt  was  caked 
with  mud,  and  her  shoes  and  stockings  plastered  with 
it.  She  seemed  depressed.  She  explained  she  had  slipped 
trying  to  balance  on  a  plank,  and  had  fallen  in  the  chuck- 
hole. 

"This  pool  is  full  of  dead  cattle,"  she  said,  dolefully. 
"I  just  put  my  finger  in  something's  eye." 

About  to  take  off  shoes  and  stockings  and  wade  into 
the  pool,  something  gave  me  pause.  Gingerly  we  stood 
on  the  brink,  and  poked  planks  where  the  mud  was 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  131 

thickest,  in  the  forlorn  hope  of  making  a  stable  bottom. 
Alas,  they  only  sank,  and  vexed  us  by  protruding  on  end 
whenever  we  tried  to  back  the  old  lady.  We  knew  the 
first  step  was  to  jack  the  rear  wheels,  but  while  we  raised 
one  wheel,  the  other  sank  so  deep  in  the  mud  that  we 
could  get  neither  plank  nor  jack  under  it.  After  many 
embittered  attempts  we  gave  it  up,  and  tried  placing  the 
jack  under  the  springs.  It  worked  beautifully;  in  a  few 
seconds  the  body  of  the  car  was  a  foot  higher,  and  seemed 
willing  to  continue  her  soaring  indefinitely.  We  took 
turns  jacking;  still  she  rose.  We  were  greatly  encouraged. 
After  several  minutes  Toby  said,  "The  jack's  at  the  top 
notch, — what  shall  I  do  next?" 

It  was  so  easy  we  might  have  guessed  there  was  a 
catch  somewhere.  To  our  astonishment  we  discovered 
that  in  rising,  the  body  of  the  car  had  not  taken  the 
wheels  with  it.  Two  feet  of  daylight  gaped  between 
mudguard  and  wheels.  A  moment  more,  and  the  two 
would  have  parted  company  forever.  Jacking  is  easy 
in  theory,  or  in  a  garage,  but  the  trouble  with  the  out- 
door art  is  that  the  car  usually  lands  in  a  position  where 
it  has  to  be  jacked  up  in  order  to  get  planks  under  it  in 
order  to  jack  it  up.  "Pou  sto,"  said  Archimedes,  defin- 
ing our  dilemma  succinctly. 

New  Mexico  boasts  an  inhabitant  to  every  eight  square 
miles,  but  the  member  for  our  district  continued  to  ignore 
our  invasion  of  his  realm.  Two  fried  egg  sandwiches, 
consumed  that  noon,  was — or  were — our  only  sustenance 
that  day.  We  were  so  hungry  we  sounded  hollow  to  the 
touch.  Our  mouths  felt  like  flannel,  and  our  throats 
burned  with  thirst.  Not  forty  feet  away  a  stream  of  pure 
water  ran  from  the  windmill.  But  it  ran  from  a  slippery 


i32  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

lead  pipe  which  extended  a  dozen  feet  over  a  reservoir. 
The  water  was  there,  but  we  could  not  get  at  it  without  a 
plunge  bath.  Muddy  and  weary,  we  worked  on  without 
courage. 

At  sundown,  from  one  of  the  other  squares  ap- 
peared the  Inhabitant  on  horseback,  driving  some  cows 
to  our  cattle-hole.  He  was  a  youth  of  sixteen,  running 
mostly  to  adenoids  and  Adam's  apple,  which  worked  agi- 
tatedly at  sight  of  us,  but  his  eyelashes  any  beauty 
specialist  would  envy.  As  to  his  voice,  the  strain  of  mak- 
ing it  reach  across  eight  miles  to  the  next  Inhabitant  had 
exhausted  it,  or  perhaps  embarrassment  silenced  him; 
we  could  not  get  a  word  out  of  him  till  he  had  watered  his 
cattle  and  started  away.  Then  emboldened  by  having  his 
back  safely  to  us,  he  shouted  that  at  a  house,  a  "coupla 
miles  southeast,"  we  might  find  a  team, — and  vanished 
into  nowhere. 

Toby  had  by  this  time-  managed  to  crawl  out  on  the 
lead  pipe,  and  after  gyrations  fascinating  to  watch,  cap- 
tured a  pail  of  water.  Drinking  eagerly,  we  set  out  for 
the  house  the  Inhabitant  indicated,  with  the  pail  in  our 
hands  to  guard  against  future  thirst.  Sunset  was  making 
transparent  the  low  mountain  range  skirting  our  valley, 
when  we  left.  The  sand  filled  our  shoes,  and  the  per- 
sistent "devil's  claw,"  zealous  to  propagate  its  kind,  clung 
to  our  feet  with  a  desperate  grip.  Our  pail  became  heavy, 
but  we  dared  not  empty  it.  At  last  we  reached  the  ranch. 
A  half-starved  dog  sprang  out  eagerly  to  meet  us.  The 
house  was  deserted;  there  were  no  teams  to  pull  us  out, 
nor  any  food  to  give  the  poor,  famishing  beast.  He 
watched  us  leave,  with  a  hurt,  baffled  look  in  his  brown 
eyes,  as  if  patiently  marveling  at  the  inhumanity  of  man. 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  133 

From  the  ranch,  we  glimpsed  another  house,  a  mile  fur- 
ther away,  and  again  we  started  hopefully  for  it,  while 
a  horned  moon  circled  up  a  pink  sky.  The  desert  from 
a  barren,  ugly  waste  was  become  unbelievably  lovely 
in  the  transfiguring  twilight. 

The  crescent  moon  brought  us  no  luck,  for  we  saw 
it  over  our  left  shoulders.  It  was  still  Friday  the  Thir- 
teenth. The  second  house,  even  to  the  hungry  dog,  du- 
plicated the  first.  It  stood  dismantled  and  deserted.  We 
saw  nothing  ahead  but  a  ten  mile  tramp  to  Rodeo  in  the 
dark,  the  poison  green  hotel,  and  "Lord  help  us  1"  what- 
ever that  meant. 

Our  flashlight  was  in  the  car.  To  return  for  it  meant 
three  more  weary  miles.  Toby  was  for  risking  the 
road  without  it,  but  my  sixth  sense  warned  me  to  return, 
and  I  persuaded  her  to  this  course.  As  we  crossed  the 
desert  the  dim  shape  of  our  marooned  machine  loomed 
up  in  the  dusk.  And  beside  it — 

"Another  mirage !" 

"Where?"  asked  weary  Toby,  indifferently.  At  this 
moment  the  wonders  of  Nature  meant  nothing  to  her. 

"There  seem  to  be  two  cars, — I  can  see  them  quite 
plainly." 

"There  are  two  cars,"  said  Toby,  and  we  ran,  the  pail 
slopping  water  on  our  feet. 

With  a  broad  grin  on  each  face,  two  men  watched  us 
approach.  They  were  young;  I  judged  them  thirty 
and  thirty-five.  They  stopped  just  short  of  being 
armed  to  the  teeth.  Each  wore  a  cartridge  belt,  and 
they  shared  two  rifles  and  a  revolver.  The  older  and  the 
more  moderately  arsenaled,  looked  like  a  parson.  The 
younger  wore  a  tan  beaver  sombrero,  of  the  velvety, 


i34  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

thirty-dollar  kind  proclaiming  its  owner  a  cow-puncher, 
an  old-timer,  a  hard  boiled  egg  who  doesn't  care  who 
knows  it.  His  shirt  was  of  apple-green  flannel,  his  small, 
high  boots  festooned  with  stitching  and  escalloped  with 
colored  leather  like  a  Cuban  taxi,  his  purple  neckerchief 
was  knotted  with  a  ring  carved  from  ox-bone,  and  from 
his  cartridge  belt  in  a  carved  leather  case  hung  the  largest 
revolver  I  ever  saw.  His  generous  silver  spurs  were 
cut  in  the  shape  of  spades,  hearts,  diamonds  and  clubs. 
Montgomery  Ward,  Marshall  Field  and  Sears-Roebuck 
combined  never  turned  out  a  more  indisputable  vachero. 
We  greeted  them  with  joy;  their  happy  grins  told  us 
they  would  see  us  through  our  difficulties.  It  was  nine  by 
the  village  clock  of  Rodeo,  if  they  had  one,  which  I  doubt. 
It  was  not  the  sort  of  town  which  would  have  a  clock, 
or  even  an  Ingersoll. 

uYou  girls  nearly  caught  us  pullin'  out,"  Sears- 
Roebuck  greeted  us.  uWe  figured  how  the  feller  who 
owned  this  car  would  be  cussin'  mad,  and  we  was  plannin' 
to  sticjc  around  to  hear  his  language,  an'  then  we  seen 
women's  things  in  the  seat,  so  we  jest  had  our  supper 
here,  while  we  waited  for  you." 

It  never  would  have  happened  east  of  Chicago.  They 
had  waited  nearly  two  hours  that  they  might  do  us  the 
favor  of  another  hour's  hard  work  in  setting  us  on  dry 
land  again.  They  had  been  "making  time"  for  El  Paso, 
and  the  delay  spoiled  a  half  day  for  them,  but  they  did 
not  complain.  They  acted  as  if  persuading  our  dinosaur 
from  her  nest  of  mud  were  a  most  delightful  joke, — on 
us,  themselves  and  the  car.  They  did  not  regard  what 
they  were  doing  as  a  favor,  but  as  their  sole  business 
and  recreation  in  life.  In  sheer  high  spirits,  Biron, 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  135 

as  he  speedily  introduced  himself, — the  giddier  of  the 
two  in  dress  and  deportment, — whooped,  cleared  the 
mud-hole  in  one  leap,  and  pretended  to  lassoo  the  inert 
machine.  The  other,  smiling  benevolently  at  his  antics, 
went  steadily  to  the  serious  work  of  harnessing  the  car. 

Toby  made  a  jesting  remark  to  Biron  about  the  re- 
volver hanging  at  his  belt,  not  from  fear  but  as  a 
pleasantry.  Misunderstanding,  he  unslung  it  instantly, 
and  tossed  it  into  his  car. 

"I  don't  want  that  thing,"  he  elaborated,  "it  gets  in 
my  way." 

They  got  to  work  in  earnest,  with  great  speed  and  skill. 
Twice  the  rope  which  they  hitched  to  their  car  broke  as 
we  turned  on  our  power.  Meanwhile  the  old  lady 
churned  herself  deeper  into  the  mud,  skulls,  and  shin- 
bones  of  the  pool.  After  an  hour's  work,  with  much 
racing  of  the  engine,  and  a  Niagara  of  splashing  mud 
which  covered  us  all  from  head  to  foot,  she  stirred, 
heaved  over  on  one  side,  and  groaning  like  seven  devils 
commanded  to  come  out,  lumbered  to  terra  firma,  loom- 
ing beside  the  pert  wrecking  car  like  Leviathan  dug  out 
with  an  hook. 

After  all,  it  was  a  glorious  Thirteenth.  No  sensation 
is  more  exhilarating  than  to  be  rescued  from  a  mud-hole 
which  seemed  likely  to  envelop  one  for  life.  Even  the 
slender  arc  of  the  young  moon,  in  that  clear  air,  poured 
a  silver  flood  over  the  desert,  now  a  mysterious  veil  of 
luminous  blue.  The  vibrant  heat  waves  of  day  had  risen 
and  twisted  into  the  thin  air,  and  frosty  currents  swept 
and  freshened  the  simmering  earth.  The  elder,  a  slow- 
speaking  chap  from  Tucson,  gravely  filled  our  radiator 
from  the  reservoir,  filled  his  canteen  and  offered  us  a 


136  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

drink,  and  then  asked  us  if  we  had  eaten  supper.  We 
bravely  fibbed,  with  hunger  gnawing  within,  not  wishing 
to  put  ourselves  further  in  their  debt.  As  they  prepared 
to  leave  I  was  uncomfortably  reminded  we  had  no  break- 
fast for  next  morning,  and  no  water,  owing  to  our  can- 
teenless  state.  They  were  our  food  and  drink — and  we 
were  letting  them  depart! 

But  I  wanted  to  make  sure  what  they  would  do  next. 
In  businesslike  fashion  they  started  their  car,  then  bade 
us  a  cordial  good-by.  They  made  no  hint  toward  con- 
tinuing our  acquaintance,  nor  asked  our  plans,  and  even 
the  merry  Biron  showed  only  an  impersonal  twinkle  as 
he  shook  hands.  So  I  spoke,  choosing  between  apple 
jelly  for  breakfast,  and  ham,  eggs,  coffee  and  impro- 
priety. 

"Would  you  mind  if  we  followed  you  and  camped 
somewhere  near?" 

They  accepted  our  company  with  the  same  jovial  en- 
thusiasm with  which  they  had  met  us, — Biron  I  thought  a 
trifle  too  jovial,  but  Tucson  steady  as  a  Christian  En- 
deavorer.  They  jumped  in  their  car,  took  the  lead,  and 
in  the  dark  we  streaked  after  their  red  lantern,  over  thirty 
miles  of  "malpais." 

We  had  been  warned  of  "malpais"  in  the  untrust- 
worthy Keyes,  but  without  knowing  what  it  meant.  Sev- 
eral thousand  years  ago,  the  tire  trust  manipulated  a 
geologic  cataclysm  which  strewed  millions  of  needle- 
pointed  granite  stones  over  our  road.  To  drive  a  newly- 
tired  car  over  malpais  hurts  one's  sensibilities  as  much 
as  to  stick  a  safety-pin  into  a  baby,  with  the  difference 
that  the  baby  recovers.  Over  chuck-holes,  down  grades, 
into  arroyos,  always  over  malpais  we  dashed  after  their 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  137 

bobbing  light,  terrified  lest  a  puncture  should  deprive  us 
of  their  guardianship.  Thirty  miles  of  weariness  and 
mental  anguish  at  the  injury  we  did  our  springs  and  tires 
gave  way  to  relief  when  the  red  lantern  suddenly  turned 
to  the  left,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  an  open,  treeless 
field.  We  sank  to  the  ground,  worn  out  with  waiting  for 
the  "plop"  that  never  sounded. 

Save  for  a  waning  moon,  it  was  pitch  dark.  We  were 
on  a  high  tableland,  with  looming  hills  completely  en- 
closing us.  For  the  first  time,  it  occurred  to  me  that 
here  we  were  unarmed,  at  midnight,  fifty  miles  from  a 
settlement,  at  the  mercy  of  two  men  fully  armed,  whom 
we  had  known  two  hours.  What  was  to  prevent  them 
from  killing  or  wounding  us,  taking  our  car,  and  aban- 
doning us  in  that  lonely  spot  where  we  should  never  be 
found?  Or,  as  the  novelist  says, — Worse?  I  could  see 
Toby  gripped  by  the  same  terror.  Chaperoned  only  by 
the  Continental  Divide,  with  not  even  a  tree  to  dodge 
behind  if  they  pointed  their  arsenal  our  way,  we  won- 
dered for  a  fleeting  moment  if  we  had  done  wisely. 

Our  neighbors  for  the  night  pulled  two  bedding  rolls 
from  their  car,  threw  them  on  the  ground,  and  announced 
they  had  made  their  camp.  An  awkward  moment  fol- 
lowed. We  looked  for  a  sheltered  place  for  our  tent, 
but  there  was  none.  Seeming  to  have  no  other  motive 
than  that,  lacking  a  tree,  we  had  to  sling  our  tent-rope 
over  the  car,  we  managed  to  use  the  old  lady  as  a  discreet 
chaperone,  placing  her  in  front  of  our  tent-door,  which 
we  could  enter  by  crawling  over  the  running-board. 

With  widening  smiles  they  took  it  all  in;  took  in  our 
efforts  to  be  ladies,  took  in  our  folding  stove,  folding 
lantern  and  tiny  air  pillows.  As  we  put  together  our 


i38  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

folding  shovel  and  proceeded  to  dig  a  hip  trench,  their 
politeness  cracked,  and  a  chuckle  oozed  out. 

"My!"  said  Tucson,  as  profanely  as  that,  "you're  all 
fixed  up  for  camping  out,  aint  ye?" 

Our  tent  invited,  after  our  weary  day,  but  an  expec- 
tant something  in  our  host's  manner  made  us  hesitate. 
Politeness,  ordinary  gratitude  in  fact,  since  we  had  noth- 
ing but  our  company  to  offer,  seemed  to  demand  that  we 
visit  awhile.  We  sat  on  a  bedding  roll;  Biron  joined  us, 
while  the  parson-like  Tucson  took  the  one  nearby. 

"Was  you  ever  anyways  near  to  being  hung?" 

Biron  shied  a  pebble  at  a  cactus  as  he  put  this  question. 
All  in  all,  it  was  as  good  a  conversational  opening  as  the 
weather, — not  so  rock-ribbed,  perhaps,  but  with  more 
dramatic  possibilities. 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  don't  think  I  ever  was.  Were  you, 
Toby?" 

It  was  mean  of  me  to  ask  her.  Toby  hates  to  be  out- 
done, or  admit  her  experiences  have  been  incomplete. 
I  saw  her  agile  mind  revolving  for  some  adventure  in  her 
past  that  she  could  bring  up  as  a  creditable  substitute, 
but  she  had  never  been  anywhere  near  to  being  hung,  and 
she  knew  I  knew  it. 

"H'm-m,"  she  said  noncommittally,  her  inflection  im- 
plying tremendous  reserves, — "were  you?" 

"Onct,"  replied  Biron,  "only  onct.  But  if  anyone  ever 
tells  you  he  was  near  hanging,  and  was  brave  under  the 
circumstances,  don't  you  believe  him.  There  I  was  with 
the  rope  around  my  neck,  and  I  a  hollerin'  and  a  squealin' 
like  a  baby,  and  beggin'  to  be  let  off.  There  aint  no  man 
livin',  I'll  say,  feelin'  them  pullin'  and  sawin'  away  on 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  139 

his  neck  that  aint  a  goin'  to  bawl  and  cry  an7  beg  f'r 
mercy." 

"What  was  the — occasion — if  you  don't  mind  our  ask- 
ing?" 

Biron  shied  another  stone  at  the  cactus  and  missed. 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  raced  along,  "another  feller  had 
stole  some  horses,  an'  knowin'  how  he  come  by  them  an' 
all  that,  I  jest  sorter  relieved  him  of  them.  An'  I  was 
a  ridin'  along  toward  Mexico  when  they  caught  up  with 


me." 


"But  I  thought  they  no  longer  hanged  people  for,- 
—for- " 

"Horse  stealin'?  They  don't  much,  but  y'see  this 
feller  had  happened  to  kill  a  coupla  men  gettin'  away,  and 
when  they  seen  me  with  the  horses  he  started  off  with  they 
natch'aily  thought  I  was  the  one  done  it  all." 

How  dark  and  gloomy  looked  the  encircling  hills ! 

"They  got  the  rope  on  me,  and  my  feet  was  off  the 
ground,  but  I  blubbered  so  hard  bimeby  the*y  let  me  off." 

He  looked  at  Tucson  with  a  glance  that  seemed  to 
share  a  common  experience. 

"I  aint  sayin'  I  didn't  do  other  things  they  might  'a 
got  me  for " 

Tucson  nodded,  and  opened  his  slow  mouth  to  speak, 
but  the  nimbler  Biron  cut  in. 

"Oh,  I  been  pretty  bad  some  times.  Any  feller  thirty 
years  old  or  so,  if  he  gits  to  thinkin'  all  the  fool  things 
he's  done,  he's  likely  to  kill  himself  laughin'." 

Tucson  nodded  gravely.     "I  reckon " 

"We  uster  to  go  down  to  the  border,  to  them  Mexican 
dances,  to  have  fun  with  the  Mexican  girls.  They  have 
music  an'  everthin'  an'  the  greasers  sit  on  one  side  of  the 


1 40  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

hall  and  the  girls  on  the  other.  We'd  mix  in  and  take  the 
girls  away  from  the  men,  an'  every  time  the  big  bull  fiddle 
give  a  whoop,  we'd  take  a  drink  of  mescal.  Then  we'd 
go  shoot  up  the  town.  Whenever  we'd  kill  a  Mexican, 
we'd  put  a  notch  on  our  gun,  as  long  as  the'  was  room.  I 
knowed  one  feller,  Tom  Lee  by  name,  knowed  him  well, 
they  say  accounted  for  five  hundred,  all  in  all." 

"And  didn't  you  get  into  trouble  with  the  law?" 

"Law?"  Biron  snorted.  "Law?  They  aint  no  law 
against  shootin'  dawgs,  is  they?" 

His  seemed  a  reasonable  attitude,  demonstrating  the 
superiority  of  a  real  American  over  the  contemptible 
greaser.  This  excitable  mixture  of  half  a  dozen  in- 
ferior and  treacherous  races  turns  ugly  when  our  boys, 
out  for  a  harmless  lark  where  it  will  do  least  harm,  shoot 
up  his  towns  and  his  neighbors,  and  violate  his  women. 
Then  the  Mexican  uses  a  knife.  No  decent  man  uses  a 
knife.  And  so  our  border  is  kept  in  a  state  of  constant 
turmoil. 

"There  aint  no  harm  potting  Mexicans,"  continued 
Biron,  "especially  when  they  get  fresh.  The  Mexican 
girls  aint  so  bad.  Sometimes  an  American  will  marry 
one,  but  it  has  to  be  a  pretty  low  white  girl  that  will  marry 
a  greaser." 

"That's  so.  I — "  drawled  Tucson.  He  seemed  col- 
lecting his  slower  wits  for  a  narration,  but  Biron  rattled 
on. 

"This  Lee  is  out  hidin'  somewhere  now,  in  the  moun- 
tains,— him  and  his  brother.  The  sheriff  shot  at  him  just 
as  he  was  ridin'  past  a  glass  window,  and  cut  his  eye 
half  out  so  it  hung  down  on  his  face.  But  he  got  away 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  141 

into  the  canyons,  and  was  ridin'  with  them  on  his  heels  for 
three  days  and  nights,  with  his  eye  like  that." 

uThen  the  law  did  try  to  redress  the  murder  of  those 
five  hundred  Mexicans." 

"I  guess  not.  They  was  after  him  for  committing  a 
crime,  and  serve  him  right, — he  tried  to  evade  the 
draft." 

"They  was  two  ignorant  boys,"  explained  Parson 
Tucson  to  me,  "raised  in  the  backwoods,  who  didn't 
rightly  know  what  the  draft  was  for,  or  they  wouldn't 
have  done  it." 

The  attitude  of  both  men  was  gravely  patriotic.  Yet 
one  could  see  they  cherished  the  idea  of  the  outlawed 
boys,  eighteen  and  twenty,  who  could  bear  with  tradi- 
tional stoicism  such  unendurable  pain.  The  West  clings 
pathetically  to  these  proofs  that  its  old  romantic  life  is 
not  yet  extinct,  even  though  it  is  but  the  wriggle  which 
dies  at  sunset.  Stories  like  those  of  Biron's  are  still  told 
with  gusto  even  amid  the  strangest  familiarity  with  Vic- 
trolas, — though  the  saloon  is  replaced  by  the  soda  foun- 
tain, and  the  only  real  cowboys  are  on  film,  and  the  hardy 
tenderfoot  now  rides  so  well,  shoots  so  well  and  knows 
his  West  so  well  that  he  is  an  easy  mark  for  the  native, 
only  when  the  latter  tries  to  sell  him  an  oil  well,  an 
irrigated  ranch,  or  a  prehistoric  skull. 

We  made  a  move  for  our  tent,  but  Biron  had  not 
finished  his  thirty  years'  Odyssey.  He  had  lightly 
skipped  from  tales  of  outlawry  to  big  game,  and  the 
dangers  of  the  hunt.  He  was  now  among  the  Mormons, 
and  the  subject  was  deftly  moon-lit  with  sentiment.  He 
was  enjoying  himself,  and  he  glanced  from  one  to  the 
other  of  us  as  he  rattled  on. 


i42  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

"Up  in  the  Mormon  country,  I  met  two  Mormon  girls, 
only  I  didn't  know  what  they  was,  and  was  cussin'  the 
Mormons  and  what  I  thought  of  them,  when  one  of 
them  ast  me  what  I  thought  of  Mormon  girls,  so  then  I 
caught  on.  So  I  expressed  a  little  of  what  I  thought  of 
them,  an'  we  got  on  fine.  She  ast  me  to  a  dance,  an'  I 
said  I'd  go  if  I  could  ride  back  to  my  bed  in  time  to  get 
my  other  pants.  But  it  was  a  day's  trip,  an'  I  couldn't 
make  it.  I  meant  to  go  back  later,  to  ask  some  questions 
of  her, — personal  ones,  I  mean, — "  he  took  time  to  hit 
the  cactus  blossom  squarely, — "relating  to  matrimony,  if 
you  know  what  I  mean.  But  I  never  did  get  to  go  back." 

Now  like  most  men,  the  westerner  recognizes  two 
kinds  of  women,  but  with  this  distinction; — he  permits 
her  to  classify  herself  while  he  respects  her  classification. 
The  Merry  One  seemed  to  be  leading  up  to  a  natural 
transition. 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  about  love.  Jest  kinder  cold,  I 
am,  like  a  stone."  He  snickered  softly. 

"Truly?"  said  Toby,  innocently  interested.  "Why  is 
that?" 

He  shied  a  pebble  at  the  long-suffering  cactus. 

"Jest  my  nature,  I  reckon.  My  French  blood.  Didn't 
you  know  all  Frenchmen  was  marble-hearted?" 

Tucson  beamed  slowly,  like  a  benevolent  minister  of 
the  gospel. 

"Toby,"  I  said,  "you  have  yawned  twice  in  the  last  five 
minutes." 

Toby  never  needs  to  hear  the  word  bed  repeated.  She 
got  to  her  feet,  sleepily. 

"We  can't  thank  you  enough  for  all  you've  done  to- 
day," I  went  on  in  a  cordial  way.  "All  through  the  west 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  143 

we  have  met  with  the  greatest  help  and  courtesy.  Peo- 
ple ask  us  if  we're  afraid  to  travel  alone,  but  we  always 
tell  them  not  when  we  are  among  westerners." 

Tucson  beamed,  bless  his  heart,  at  my  model  speech, 
and  found  tongue.  "That's  right,"  he  said,  leaning  to- 
ward us  earnestly,  "There  won't  nobody  hurt  you  in  this 
country." 

We  shook  hands  all  around.  As  we  were  nearing  our 
tent,  Biron  followed  us  with  something  in  his  hand,  which 
he  proffered  with  the  flourish  of  an  eighteenth  century 
marquis. 

"Here,"  he  said,  "take  this."  I  jumped.  It  was  his 
ferocious  revolver. 

"What  is  this  for?"  we  asked. 

"For  protection." 

"Against  what?" 

"Against  us." 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you.  We  feel  quite  safe  without  it," 
we  prevaricated. 

"Go  ahead  and  take  it,"  said  Biron,  politely  stubborn. 

Here  was  a  dilemma.  Could  one  accept  such  an  offer 
from  one's  hosts,  even  though  on  their  own  confession 
unhonored  and  unhung  horse  thieves,  light-hearted  mur- 
derers and  easy  philanderers?  And  yet  he  seemed  so 
sure  we  should  need  it. 

"Never  for  that  reason,"  I  said,  thinking  to  make  a 
graceful  exit  from  the  dilemma,  "still  if  all  the  stories 
you  have  told  us  of  wild  animals  and  outlaws " 

Biron  blocked  my  exit;  "You  needn't  worry  about 
them"  he  chuckled  mirthfully,  "But  you  don't  know  what 
ructions  we  may  raise  in  the  night." 

"Better  take  it,"  Toby  whispered.     So  we  bore  our 


144  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

arms  to  our  tent,  where  they  helped  us  pass  a  restless 
night.  When  I  did  not  wake  in  a  cold  agony  from  dream- 
ing I  had  rolled  over  on  the  pistol  and  exploded  it,  Toby 
would  wake  me  to  warn  me  against  the  same  fate.  I 
think  we  would  have  been  happier  if  we  had  relied  on 
the  honor  system.  Once  a  shriek  and  a  roar  startled  us 
awake,  and  a  half  mile  away  a  Southern  Pacific  express 
streamed  by  like  a  silver  streak.  Occasionally  a  placid 
snore  from  Tucson  reached  us,  and  once  an  old  white 
ghost  of  a  horse,  her  bones  making  blue  shadows  in  the 
moonlight,  crunched  at  our  tent  posts,  and  fled  kicking 
terrified  kicks  as  I  looked  out  to  investigate. 

Later  sleep  came,  deep  sleep,  from  which  Toby  woke 
me.  Toby  is  brave,  but  her  whisper  had  a  tremolo. 
"There's  a  wild  animal  of  some  sort,  butting  against 
the  tent." 

I  looked  out  cautiously.  "It's  a  huge  bull,"  I  re- 
ported. Toby  shuddered.  A  moment  later  I  saw  it  was 
only  a  moderate  sized  cow,  but  to  impress  Toby  I  did 
not  mention  this  discovery,  as  I  boldly  left  the  tent  and 
approached  the  beast.  She  was  chewing  with  gusto  a 
shapeless  mass  lying  on  the  ground, — was  it  a  calf? 
Was  she  a  cannibal  among  cows,  an  unnatural  mother? 
She  muzzled  it,  licked  it,  and  tossed  it  in  the  air,  where 
against  the  setting  moon  her  smile  of  delight  was  sil- 
houetted like  the  cow  in  Mother  Goose.  I  took  courage 
to  investigate  her  new  form  of  caviar, — and  found  she 
had  chewed  our  new  yellow  slicker,  in  which  we  wrapped 
everything  which  would  not  go  anywhere  else,  into  a 
slimy,  pulpy  mass.  To  her  hurt  astonishment,  she  was 
immediately  parted  from  her  find,  and  went  galloping 
off  into  the  brush.  It  seemed  cruel  to  break  up  her  mid- 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  145 

night  revel,  but  at  the  rate  her  new  taste  was  developing 
we  should  not  have  had  a  tire  left  by  morning. 

Before  going  back  to  sleep,  I  looked  about  me.  Long 
gray  shadows  drifted  over  from  the  low  range  of  black 
hills  which  cupped  our  camp.  The  air,  crisp,  and  faintly 
scented  with  sage,  exhilarated  me  with  a  sense  of  wild 
freedom.  Often,  in  the  East,  I  am  awakened  by  that 
scent,  and  am  filled  with  a  homesick  longing  to  go  back. 
It  is  not  sage  alone,  but  the  thousands  of  little  aromatic 
plants  graying  the  desert  imperceptibly,  the  odor  blown 
across  hills  and  plains  of  charred  camp  fires,  bitter  and 
pungent,  the  strong  smell  of  bacon  and  sweated  leather, 
all  mingled  and  purified  in  millions  of  cubic  feet  of  ether. 
Two  blue-black  masses  stirred,  and  a  sigh  and  a  chuckle 
came  from  our  sleeping  Galahads.  No  danger  of  "ruc- 
tions" from  that  quarter  now.  I  went  back  to  our 
lumpy  bed,  put  the  revolver  outside  the  tent,  and  fastened 
the  flap.  A  few  minutes  sped  by,  and  I  was  startled 
awake  by  a  gunshot,  thunderous  in  my  ears. 

Toby  and  I  sat  up.  It  was  broad  daylight.  We 
peered  under  the  car  cautiously.  Tucson  had  built  a  fire, 
and  a  coffee-pot  sat  atop,  which  he  soberly  tended.  Biron 
swanked  about  in  his  fleecy  chaps,  shooting  into  the  air. 

"Come  alive,  girls,"  he  called,  tossing  a  flapjack  at  us. 
"Throw  that  into  your  sunburned  hides." 

We  obeyed  this  playboy  of  our  Western  world  with- 
out demur.  We  had  barely  eaten  since  the  previous 
morning.  At  eight  we  were  off.  Our  car  had  no  spare 
tire,  two  broken  spring  leaves,  and  a  dustpan  which 
dragged  on  the  ground,  loosened  by  miles  of  high  centers. 
Our  friends  were  in  haste  to  reach  El  Paso,  so  we  sug- 
gested they  leave  us,  but  they  refused,  and  became  our 


i46  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

body  guard  as  far  as  Deming,  stopping  when  we  did, 
mending  our  dustpan  with  a  bit  of  stolen  fence  wire, 
getting  water  and  gas  for  us  at  Hachita,  a  dismal  little 
collection  of  shanties  which  Biron  regretfully  described 
as  "the  wickedest  town  in  the  United  States,  before  pro- 
hibition spoiled  it.  Yessir,  prohibition  is  what  ruined 
New  Mexico." 

In  the  midst  of  a  swirling  sand  storm  we  said  good-by 
to  our  friends  and  asked  their  names  and  addresses  in 
order  to  send  them  some  photographs  we  had  taken. 
Biron  gave  his  readily, — "Manchester,  N.  H.,  is  where 
I  was  born,  but  most  of  my  folks  live  in  Fall  River, 
Mass." 

It  was  not  the  address  we  expected  from  a  man  who 
had  seen  worse  deeds  than  Jesse  James.  It  was  out  of 
the  picture,  somehow.  I  knew  Manchester,  N.  H.,  and 
had  met  nothing  in  the  town  so  tough  and  bad  as  Biron 
had  described  himself,  unless  it  were  the  sandwiches  sold 
in  the  Boston  and  Maine  station.  When  we  turned  to 
Tucson  for  his  name,  we  were  prepared  to  have  him 
give  the  address  of  a  theological  seminary,  and  again  we 
were  surprised.  For  Tucson  hesitated  and  stammered, 
and  took  longer  recalling  his  name  than  is  usually  needed. 
I  remembered  a  remark  Biron  threw  off  the  night  be- 
fore,— ua  man  gets  to  calling  himself  a  lot  of  different 
names  in  this  country,"  and  snickered,  while  Tucson 
remained  grave  as  a  judge.  I  wondered,  if  his  voluble 
friend  had  given  him  a  chance,  whether  Tucson  might 
have  told  us  something  interesting.  However,  Tucson 
had  just  discovered  a  copper  vein  on  his  land,  and  as  this 
book  goes  to  print  may  already  be  a  respectable  Fifth 
Avenue  millionaire. 


FRIDAY  THE  THIRTEENTH  147 

As  we  thanked  them  and  said  good-by,  Toby  said,  uWe 
can't  be  too  grateful  you  saw  our  sign  in  the  road." 

"Sign?     What  sign?" 

"Didn't  you  see  a  sign  made  of  white  pebbles  on  the 
road  from  Rodeo,  asking  for  help?" 

uNo,  we  didn't  see  no  sign.  We  didn't  come  from 
Rodeo.  We  came  the  other  road, — over  the  hills." 

There  it  is.  No  matter  how  much  one  does  as  Robin- 
son Crusoe  would  have  done,  the  other  characters  will 
not  play  up  to  their  opportunities.  Instead  of  following 
your  footprints  cunningly,  step  by  step,  they  will  insist  on 
catching  sight  of  you  across  lots,  completely  spoiling  the 
climax.  No  doubt  Crusoe  was  firm  with  infringers  on 
his  plot.  Probably  when  they  came  by  the  wrong  road, 
he  refused  to  be  rescued  till  they  had  gone  back  and  done 
the  thing  properly. 

But  then,  we  were  very  glad  to  be  rescued  at  all. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHY  ISLETA'S  CHURCH  HAS  A  WOODEN  FLOOR 

IT  Ti  7E  had  trailed  spring  up  from  Texas  through  Ari- 
V  V  zona,  timing  our  progress  so  cleverly  that  it 
seemed  as  if  we  had  only  to  turn  our  radiator's  nose 
down  a  desert  path  for  blue  lupin  and  golden  poppies  to 
blaze  up  before  us.  At  last  we  reached  the  meeting  of 
the  Rockies  with  the  Rio  Grande  in  New  Mexico,  led 
by  the  devious  route,  sometimes  a  concrete  avenue,  but 
oftener  a  mere  track  in  the  sand,  of  the  old  Spanish 
highway.  El  Camino  Real  is  the  imposing  name  it  bears, 
suggesting  ancient  caravans  of  colonial  grandees,  and 
pack-trains  bearing  treasure  from  Mexico  City  to  the 
provincial  trading-post  of  Santa  Fe.  Even  today  what 
sign-posts  the  road  displays  bear  the  letters  K  T,  which 
from  Mexico  to  Canada  stand  for  King's  Trail.  The 
name  gave  us  a  little  thrill,  to  be  still  extant  in  a  govern- 
ment which  had  supposedly  repudiated  kings  this  century 
and  a  half. 

From  San  Anton'  on,  as  we  left  behind  us  the  big 
mushroom  cities  of  Texas,  the  country  became  more  and 
more  sparsely  settled.  The  few  people  we  met,  mostly 
small  farmers  ploughing  their  fields  primitively,  bade  us 
a  courteous  good  day  in  Spanish,  for  in  this  country 
Mexico  spills  untidily  into  the  United  States.  We  soon 
forgot  altogether  that  we  were  in  the  States.  First  we 

came  upon  a  desert  country,  vast  and  lonely,  with  golden 

148 


ISLETA'S  CHURCH  149 

sand  in  place  of  grass,  spiny,  stiff-limbed  cactus  for  trees, 
and  strangely  colored  cliffs  of  lemon  and  orange  and 
livid  white.  After  days  of  this  desolation  we  emerged 
upon  the  valley  of  the  Rio  Grande  where  its  many  tribu- 
taries rib  the  desert  as  they  run  from  snowy  peaks  to 
join  its  muddy  red  waters.  The  air  here  is  crystal  keen, 
warmed  by  intense  sun,  cooled  by  mountain  winds,  and 
sweetened  by  millions  of  pinons  dotting  the  red  hillsides. 
Lilac  and  blue  mountains  ring  the  valley  on  both  sides, 
and  from  them  emerald  fields  of  alfalfa,  sparkling  in  the 
sun,  slope  down  to  the  old,  winding  stream.  Because  its 
silt  is  so  fertile,  one  race  has  succeeded  another  here 
— cliff-dwellers,  Indian,  Spanish,  Mexican,  and  American 
— and  a  remnant  of  each,  save  the  earliest,  has  clung 
where  living  is  easy.  So  we  came  all  along  the  Rio 
Grande  for  a  hundred  miles  to  little  groups  of  towns, 
each  allotted  to  a  different  race  keeping  itself  to  itself, 
Mexican,  American,  and  Indian. 

It  was  under  the  deep-blue  night  sky  that  we  saw  our 
first  pueblo  town.  Out  of  the  plains,  it  came  surprisingly 
upon  us.  Solitary  meadows  with  bands  of  horses  graz- 
ing upon  them,  a  gleam  of  light  from  an  adobe  inn  at  a 
crossroad,  a  stretch  of  darkness,  strange  to  our  desert- 
accustomed  senses  because  of  the  damp  breath  from  the 
river  and  snow-capped  peaks  beyond — then  the  barking 
and  yelping  of  many  mongrel  dogs,  and  we  were  at  once 
precipitated  into  the  winding,  barnyard-cluttered  alleys 
of  Isleta,  feeling  our  way  through  blind  twists  and  turns, 
blocked  by  square,  squat  gray  walls  of  incredible  repose 
and  antiquity,  caught  in  the  mesh  of  a  sleeping  town. 
Instantly  we  had  a  sense,  though  no  light  was  struck 
nor  any  voice  heard  through  the  darkness,  of 


150  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

Isleta    awake    and    alert,    quickening    to    our    invasion. 

We  were  already  a  little  awed  by  our  encounter  with 
the  Rio  Grande.  Since  twilight  and  quickly  falling  night 
came  on,  we  had  crossed  and  recrossed  the  sullen  brown 
waters  many  times,  feeling  its  menacing  power,  like  a 
great  sluggish  reptile  biding  its  time,  not  the  less  because 
the  suspension  bridges  above  it  creaked  and  swung  and 
rattled  under  our  weight.  The  mystery  of  driving  after 
dark  in  an  unfamiliar  country  sharpened  our  suscepti- 
bilities to  outside  impressions.  We  felt  the  river  wait- 
ing for  us,  like  a  watchful  crocodile;  a  sudden  misturn 
in  the  shadows,  or  a  missing  plank  from  a  bridge,  and 
our  vague  sensation  of  half-fear,  half-delight,  might  at 
any  moment  be  crystallized  by  disaster.  It  was  a  night 
when  something  dramatic  might  fittingly  happen,  when 
the  stage-setting  kept  us  on  the  sharp  edge  of  suspense. 

The  Pueblo  Indian,  we  had  heard,  differed  from  other 
Indians,  being  gentler  and  more  peaceably  inclined  than 
the  Northern  races.  We  were  not  such  tenderfeet  as  to 
fear  violence,  scalping,  or  sudden  war-whoops  from 
ochre-smeared  savages.  But  it  was  our  first  experience 
with  Indians  (the  first  in  our  lives,  in  fact),  save  those 
tamed  nomads  who  peddle  sweet-grass  baskets  and  pre- 
dict handsome  husbands  along  the  New  England  beaches. 
We  were  a  little  expectant,  a  little  keyed  to  apprehension. 
We  knew,  as  if  we  had  been  told,  that  a  hundred  or  more 
of  this  alien  race  had  waked  from  their  sleep,  and  lay 
with  tightened  muscles  waiting  for  the  next  sound.  In- 
creased yelping  from  the  mongrel  pack  might  bring  them 
swarming  about  our  car,  and  we  had  no  experience  in 
dealing  with  them;  no  knowledge  of  their  prejudices  or 
language  to  trade  with.  In  our  haste  we  circled  through 


ISLETA'S  CHURCH  151 

the  town  twice,  threading  corrals  and  back  yards.  Sud- 
denly, the  town  still  tensely  silent,  we  emerged  into  a 
shallow  plaza.  Crossing  directly  before  our  lights  came 
a  young  man,  tall  and  supple,  his  straight  short  locks 
bound  with  a  scarlet  fillet,  his  profile  clear  and  patrician, 
and  over  his  shoulders  a  scarlet  robe,  covering  his  white 
cotton  trousers.  As  he  passed  us,  unmoved  and  stolid,  he 
spoke  one  word  of  salutation,  and  continued  on  his  way 
across  the  silent  plaza. 

Simple  as  was  the  incident,  the  flash  of  scarlet  against 
the  blue-black  sky,  the  dignity  and  silence  of  the  Indian, 
made  the  climax  we  had  been  awaiting.  Nothing  else 
happened.  But  it  had  been  a  night  whose  setting  was  so 
sharply  defined,  its  premonitions  so  vibrantly  tense  with 
drama,  that  only  that  little  was  needed  to  carve  it  on 
our  memory. 

We  saw  the  town  later,  in  broad  daylight,  swept  by  an 
unclean  sand-storm,  pitilessly  stripped  of  romantic  at- 
mosphere. But  the  romance  was  obscured,  not  oblite- 
rated, for  its  roots  are  sunk  deep  in  the  past.  Isleta  has 
one  of  the  finest  built-up  estufas  of  the  pueblo  towns. 
It  has  a  thousand  inhabitants,  whose  proximity  to  the 
railroad  gives  them  the  blessing  or  curse  of  the  white 
man's  civilization.  It  has  a  church,  whose  ancient  adobe 
flanks  have  been  topped  by  two  wooden  bird-cages  for 
steeples,  for  when  the  Indian  adopts  our  ideas,  his  taste 
is  rococo;  when  he  clings  to  his  own  art,  he  shows  a 
native  dignity  and  simplicity.  Lastly,  Isleta  has  a  ghost, 
well  authenticated,  and  attested  to  by  a  cardinal,  an 
archbishop,  a  governor,  and  other  dignitaries,  to  say 
nothing  of  Juan  Pancho,  a  man  who  does  not  lie.  It  is 
probablv  the  oldest  ghost  in  the  United  States. 


i52  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

About  the  time  of  the  first  Spanish  penetration  into 
the  Southwest,  a  friar  made  his  way  to  the  Pueblo  coun- 
try through  the  hostile  tribes  to  the  east.  In  one  of  the 
towns  north  of  Santa  Fe,  probably  Tesuque,  he  found 
shelter  and  a  home.  The  friendly  Indians,  although 
keeping  him  half-prisoner,  treated  him  kindly.  He  soon 
gained  their  respect  and  affection,  as  he  applied  his 
knowledge  of  medicine  to  their  physical,  and  as  a  priest 
administered  to  their  spiritual  needs,  without  giving  of- 
fense to  the  Pueblos'  own  beliefs.  He  seems  to  have 
been  a  gentle  and  tactful  creature,  who  won  his  way  by 
the  humane  Christianity  of  his  daily  life.  Gradually,  as 
they  became  better  acquainted  with  him,  they  admitted 
him  to  the  inner  circle  of  village  life,  even  to  the  sacred 
ceremonies  and  underground  rituals  of  the  kiva.  He  was 
taught  the  significance  of  their  medicine  and  of  their 
tribal  and  religious  symbols.  Almost  forgetting  his  alien 
blood,  they  had  made  him  one  of  themselves  on  the  day, 
twenty  years  later,  when  news  came  of  the  approach  of 
armed  conquistadores,  with  Coronado  at  their  head, 
seeking  plunder  and  the  treasures  of  Cibola  the  legend- 
ary. Whether  such  treasure  existed  has  never  been 
known.  If  it  did,  the  secret  was  closely  guarded  by  the 
Indians.  Perhaps  the  monk  had  been  made  their  con- 
fidant. At  any  rate,  he  knew  enough  to  make  certain 
factions  in  the  tribe  regard  him  as  an  element  of  danger, 
when  he  should  again  meet  with  men  of  his  own  race, 
hostile  to  the  people  of  his  adoption.  Would  he  remain 
true,  thus  tempted?  It  was  a  question  of  race  against 
individual  loyalty,  and  one  Indian,  more  fanatic  and  sus- 
picious than  his  brothers,  cut  the  Gordian  knot  of  the 


ISLETA'S  CHURCH  153 

difficulty  with  a  dagger,  planted  squarely  in  the  back 
of  the  God-fearing  friar. 

The  gentle  Pueblos,  horrified  by  this  act  of  personal 
treachery,  which  they  regarded  not  only  as  a  violation  of 
their  sacred  laws  of  hospitality  but  as  a  crime  against  a 
medicine-man  with  powerful  if  strange  gods,  were  in 
terror  lest  the  approaching  Spaniards  should  hear  of  the 
monk's  fate  and  avenge  the  double  crime  against  their 
race  and  religion  on  the  entire  village.  What  the 
Spaniard  could  do  on  such  occasions  was  only  too  well 
known  to  the  Pueblo  tribes.  At  nightfall  the  chiefs  of 
the  village  placed  the  body,  wrapped  only  in  a  sheet, 
on  a  litter,  which  four  swift  runners  carried  seventy 
miles  south  to  Isleta. 

There  under  the  dirt  floor  of  the  old  church,  whose 
walls  have  since  been  destroyed  and  replaced  by  the  pres- 
ent structure,  they  placed  the  padre  without  preparing  his 
body  for  burial  or  his  soul  for  resurrection.  If  they  had 
only  said  a  prayer  for  him,  they  might  have  spared  much 
trouble  to  their  descendants.  But  they  were  in  a  hurry. 
They  buried  the  corpse  deep,  six  feet  before  the  altar 
and  a  little  to  one  side  of  it,  and  pressed  down  the  dirt 
as  it  had  been.  The  Spaniards  came  and  went,  and  never 
learned  of  the  murder. 

This  prelude  to  the  story  came  from  Juan  Pancho,  one 
of  the  leading  citizens  of  Isleta.  The  sand-storm  which 
had  turned  the  sky  a  dingy  yellow  gave  signs  of  becom- 
ing more  threatening,  and  a  flat  tire  incurred  as  we 
stopped  at  his  house  for  directions  seemed  to  make  it  the 
part  of  wisdom  to  stop  overnight  in  the  little  town. 
When  we  inquired  about  hotels,  he  offered  us  a  room  in 
his  spotless  adobe  house,  with  the  hospitality  that  is 


i54  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

instinctive  in  that  part  of  the  country.  We  found  him 
an  unusual  man  with  a  keen  and  beautifully  intellectual 
face.  In  his  youth,  he  told  us,  he  was  graduated  from 
one  or  two  colleges,  and  then  completed  his  education  by 
setting  type  for  an  encyclopedia,  after  which  he  returned 
to  his  native  village  and  customs.  He  can  speak  four 
languages — Spanish,  English,  baseball  slang,  and  the 
Isleta  dialect  which  is  his  native  tongue.  When  he  came 
home  after  his  sojourn  with  the  white  man,  he  discarded 
their  styles  in  clothing,  and  adopted  the  fine  blue  broad- 
cloth trousers,  closely  fitting,  the  ruffled  and  pleated  white 
linen  shirt  which  the  Indian  had  adopted  from  the  Span- 
iard as  the  dress  of  civilized  ceremony.  On  his  feet  he 
wore  henna-stained  moccasins,  fastened  with  buttons  of 
Navajo  silver.  He  took  pride  in  his  long  black  hair,  as 
do  most  Pueblo  Indians,  and,  though  he  wore  it  in  a 
chonga  knot  during  business  hours,  in  the  relaxation  of 
his  comfortable  adobe  home  he  loosened  it,  and  delighted 
in  letting  it  flow  free. 

His  house  Mrs.  Juan  kept  neat  as  wax.  They  ate 
from  flowered  china,  with  knife  and  fork,  though  her 
bread  was  baked,  delicious  and  crusty,  in  the  round  out- 
door ovens  her  grandmothers  used  as  far  back  as  B.  C. 
or  so.  She'  had  not  shared  Juan's  experience  with  the 
white  man's  world,  except  as  it  motored  to  the  doors  of 
her  husband's  store  to  purchase  ginger  ale  or  wrought- 
silver  hatbands.  But  she  had  her  delight,  as  did  Juan, 
in  showing  the  outside  world  she  could  put  on  or  leave 
off  their  trappings  at  whim.  She  was  a  good  wife,  and 
how  she  loved  Juan !  She  hung  on  his  every  word,  and 
ministered  to  his  taste  in  cookery,  and  missed  him  when 
he  went  away  to  his  farms — just  like  a  white  woman. 


ISLETA'S  CHURCH  155 

Juan's  ranch  is  near  the  new  church,  which  has  stood 
above  the  foundations  of  the  older  church  only  a  century 
and  a  half  or  less.  It  befits  his  rank  as  one  of  the  leading 
citizens  of  the  village  that  his  property  should  have  a 
prominent  location  on  the  bare  and  sand-swept  little 
plaza.  He  loves  his  home  and  the  life  he  has  returned  to. 

"I  have  tried  them  both — you  see  I  know  English?  I 
can  talk  books  with  you,  and  slang  with  the  drummers 
that  come  to  the  trading-store?  I  have  ridden  in  your 
trains  and  your  motor-cars,  and  eaten  at  white  men's 
tables,  and  bathed  in  his  white  bathtubs.  I  have  tried  it 
all.  I  have  read  your  religious  books,  and  know  about 
your  good  man,  Jesus.  Now  I  have  come  back  to  the 
ways  of  my  people.  Well !  You  know  me  well  enough 
to  know  I  have  my  reasons.  What  is  there  in  your  ways 
for  me?  I  have  tried  them  all,  and  now  I  come  back 
to  Great  Isleta,  where  are  none  of  those  things  you  white 
men  must  have — and  life  is  full  as  before.  I  have  what 
is  inside  me — the  same  in  Isleta  as  anywhere  else.'* 

He  fastened  his  piercing  eyes  on  us,  a  trick  he  has 
when  he  is  much  in  earnest.  Those  eyes  see  a  little  more 
than  some  peopled  eyes.  To  him  the  aura  that  is  hid- 
den to  most  of  us  is  a  commonplace.  He  allows  himself 
to  be  guided  by  psychic  manifestations  to  an  extent  a 
white  man  might  not  understand.  I  heard  him  say  of 
two  men,  strangers,  who  came  to  his  ranch :  "When  they 
came  in,  I  saw  a  light  about  the  head  of  one.  All  was 
white  and  shining,  and  I  knew  I  could  trust  him.  But  the 
other  had  no  light.  It  was  black  around  him.  The  first 
man  can  be  my  friend — but  the  other,  never!  I  do  not 
trust  him." 

Moonshine?     But  the  odd  thing  is  that  Juan's  judg- 


156  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

ment,  so  curiously  formed,  became  fully  justified  by  later 
events.  The  second  man  is  not  yet  in  jail,  but  there  are 
people  who  know  enough  about  him  to  put  him  there,  if 
they  cared  to  take  the  trouble.  This  trick  of  seeing  the 
color  of  a  man's  soul  is  not  unique  with  Juan.  Many 
Pueblo  Indians  share  it,  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  it  is  a 
thing  which  they  take  for  granted  among  themselves,  and 
seldom  mention. 

Mrs.  Juan  had  cleared  away  the  supper  dishes,  and 
sat  by  a  corner  of  the  fireside.  She  had  removed  from 
her  legs  voluminous  wrappings  of  white  doeskin,  symbol 
of  her  high  financial  rating,  and  sat  openly  and  com- 
placently admiring  her  silk-stockinged  feet,  coquettishly 
adorned  with  scarlet  Turkish  slippers,  which  she  bal- 
anced on  her  toes.  Pancho  eyed  the  by-play  with  affec- 
tionate indulgence,  and  sent  a  long,  slow  wink  in  our 
direction  at  this  harmless  evidence  of  the  eternal  femi- 
nine. The  talk  had  drifted  to  tales  of  wonder,  to  which 
we  contributed  our  share  as  best  we  could,  and  now  it 
was  Juan's  turn.  He  leaned  forward  earnestly,  his  black 
eyes  somber  and  intense. 

"You  know  me  for  an  honest  man?  You  know  people 
say  that  Juan  Pancho  does  not  lie  ?  You  know  that  when 
Juan  says  he  will  do  a  thing,  he  does  it,  if  it  ruins  him?" 

We  nodded.  The  reputation  of  Juan  Pancho  was  a 
proverb  in  Great  Isleta. 

"Good!  Because  now,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  some- 
thing that  will  test  your  credulity.  You  will  need  to 
remember  all  you  know  of  my  honesty  to  believe  what 
I  tell  you  now." 

We  drew  forward,  and  listened  while  he  narrated  the 


ISLETA'S  CHURCH  157 

story  of  the  good  monk  of  the  time  of  Coronado,  as  I 
have  told  it  in  condensed  form. 

"Well,  then!  You've  been  in  that  church  where  they 
buried  the  monk — six  feet  from  the  altar,  and  a  little  to 
one  side.  Most  Indian  churches  have  a  dirt  floor,  but 
the  church  of  Great  Isleta  has  a  plank  floor,  very  heavy. 
Now  I  will  tell  you  why. 

uThe  Spaniards  came  and  went,  without  learning  of 
the  padre  who  slept  with  the  knife  wound  in  his  back, 
under  Isleta  church.  Five  years  went  by,  and  one  day, 
one  of  our  old  men  who  took  care  of  the  church  went 
within,  and  saw  a  bulge  in  the  earth,  near  the  altar.  It 
was  of  the  size  of  a  man's  body.  The  bulge  stayed  there, 
right  over  the  spot  where  they  had  buried  the  padre,  and 
day  after  day  it  grew  more  noticeable.  A  year  went  by, 
and  a  crack  appeared,  the  length  of  a  man's  body.  Two 
years,  three  years — and  the  crack  had  widened  and 
gaped.  It  was  no  use  to  fill  it,  to  stamp  down  the  dirt 
— that  crack  would  remain  open.  Then,  twelve  years 
maybe  from  the  death  of  the  padre,  the  Isletans  come 
into  the  church  one  morning,  and  there  on  the  floor,  face 
up,  lies  the  padre.  There  is  no  sign  of  a  crack  in  the 
earth — he  lies  on  solid  ground,  looking  as  if  he  had  died 
yesterday.  They  feel  his  flesh — it  is  soft,  and  gives  to 
the  touch  of  the  finger,  like  the  flesh  of  one  whose  breath 
has  just  flown.  They  turn  him  over — the  knife  wound 
is  fresh,  with  red  blood  clotting  it.  Twelve  years  he 
has  been  dead! 

"Well,  they  called  in  the  elders,  and  talked  it  over, 
and  they  bury  him,  and  give  him  another  chance  to  rest 
in  peace.  But  he  does  not  stay  buried.  A  few  years  more 
and  the  crack  shows  again,  and  at  the  end  of  twelve 


158  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

years,  as  before,  there  he  lies  on  the  ground,  his  body  as 
free  from  the  corruption  of  natural  decay  as  ever.  They 
bury  him  again,  and  after  twelve  years  he  is  up.  All 
around  him  lie  the  bones  of  Isletans  who  have  died  after 
him.  The  soil  he  lies  in  is  the  same  soil  which  has  turned 
their  flesh  to  dust  and  their  bones  to  powder. 

"So  it  goes  on,  until  my  own  time.  I  have  seen  him, 
twice.  There  are  old  men  in  our  village  who  have  seen 
him  half  a  dozen  times,  and  have  helped  to  bury  him. 
They  don't  tell  of  it — it  is  a  thing  to  keep  to  oneself — but 
they  know  of  it.  The  whole  village  knows  of  it,  but  they 
don't  talk.  But  the  last  time  he  came  up  we  talked  it 
over,  and  we  decided  we  had  enough.  This  time,  if 
possible,  we  would  make  him  stay  down. 

"I  saw  him — in  1910  or  'n  it  was — and  so  did  many 
others.  The  priest  of  Isleta  saw  him.  We  sent  for  the 
governor,  and  he  came  and  saw.  And  the  archbishop  of 
Santa  Fe  came,  and  with  him  a  cardinal  who  was  visiting 
from  Rome  itself;  they  all  came.  What  is  more,  they 
drew  up  a  paper,  and  made  two  copies,  testifying  to  what 
they  had  seen,  and  signed  it.  Then  they  took  one  copy 
and  placed  it  with  the  long-dead  padre  in  a  heavy  oak 
coffin,  and  nailed  it  down.  And  the  other  copy  the  visit- 
ing cardinal  took  back  to  Rome  to  give  to  the  pope.  My 
signature  was  on  it.  Then  we  buried  the  coffin,  deep, 
and  packed  the  earth  hard  about  it  and  stamped  it  down. 
Then  we  took  planks,  two-inch  planks,  and  laid  a  floor 
over  the  entire  church,  and  nailed  it  down  with  huge 
nails.  We  were  resolved  that  if  he  came  up,  he  would 
at  least  have  to  work  his  passage. " 

"I  suppose  youVe  heard  the  last  of  him,  then?" 

Juan  leaned  forward.    His  eyes  sparkled. 


ISLETA'S  CHURCH  159 

"We  hope  so.    We  hope  so.     But " 

He  stood  up  and  faced  us. 

"You  are  good  enough  to  say  you  believe  the  word  of 
Juan  Pancho.  But  I  will  not  test  your  credulity  too  far. 
You  shall  judge  for  yourselves." 

Juan  took  a  lantern  from  a  nail,  and  lighted  it. 

"Come  and  see  for  yourselves!" 

We  followed  him  across  the  deserted  plaza,  whose 
squat  houses  showed  dimly  gray  under  a  windy,  blue- 
black  sky.  He  unlocked  the  heavy  door  with  a  great 
key,  and  entered  the  church.  Feeling  our  way  in  the 
dark,  bare  interior,  we  advanced  to  within  six  feet  of  the 
altar,  and  he  placed  the  lantern  on  the  floor,  where  it 
shed  a  circle  of  yellow  light  among  the  black  shadows. 
We  knelt,  and  touched  the  nails.  The  heads  were  free 
of  the  floor.  On  them  were  no  tool-marks.  No  ham- 
mer had  loosened  them.  We  bent  down  further,  and 
laying  our  heads  aslant  the  planks,  sighted.  In  the  lan- 
tern light,  we  discerned  a  slight  but  unmistakable  warp 
in  the  timbers,  the  length  and  width  of  a  man's  body. 

In  silence  we  returned  to  Juan's  warm,  lighted  living- 
room,  where  Mrs.  Juan  still  sat  by  the  fire  admiring  her 
red  slippers.  If  it  is  humanly  possible,  I  intend  to  be 
in  Great  Isleta  about  the  year  1923. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SANTE  FE  AND  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE 

NOWHERE  else  did  we  find  spring  as  lovely  as  at 
Santa  Fe.  Here,  a  mile  and  a  half  above  sea 
level,  was  a  crystal  freshness  of  atmosphere,  through 
which  filtered  a  quintessence  of  the  sounds  and  scents 
and  colors  that  make  a  joyous  season  of  spring  even  in 
downtown  New  York. 

A  bit  of  a  surprise  it  was  to  find,  dozing  in  the  sun  like 
a  New  England  village,  a  town  important  enough  to 
have  given  its  name  to  a  railroad;  to  mark  the  end  of 
one  trail,  and  be  a  station  on  another;  to  have  been  the 
capital  of  an  ancient  Empire  of  the  New  World;  and 
now  to  be  the  capital  of  a  state.  Yet  the  world  passes 
it  by,  leaving  it  on  a  railroad  spur  high  and  dry  from 
transcontinental  traffic.  So  much  the  worse,  then,  for  the 
world ;  so  much  the  better  for  Santa  Fe.  The  town  does 
not  owe  its  personality  to  its  railroad  stations  and  Cham- 
bers of  Commerce.  The  peaks  guarding  its  high  isola- 
tion have  looked  down  upon  many  changes  in  its  history. 
Yet  it  stays  outwardly  nearly  unaltered;  valuing  ma- 
terial importance  so  little  that  it  hides  its  Capitol  down 
a  grassy  side  street,  while  its  Plaza  still  is  dominated  by 
the  sturdy  old  Governor's  Palace,  where  Onate  raised 
the  Spanish  flag  in  the  early  seventeenth  century,  and 
Kearny  replaced  it  with  the  American  flag  in  1846. 

The  heart  of  Santa  Fe  is  its  Plaza.     To  its  shady 

160 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE   161 

trees,  traders  tied  their  horses  when  they  had  reached  the 
end  of  the  perilous  Santa  Fe  Trail,  glad  enough  to  gain 
its  shelter  after  being  beset  by  the  primitive  dangers  of 
hunger,  thirst,  wild  beasts,  Indians  and  robbers.  The 
same  Plaza  where  drowsy  Mexicans  now  rest  upon  park 
benches,  where  processions  of  burros  pass  loaded  with 
firewood,  where  shining  automobiles  flash  by,  has  wit- 
nessed siege  and  countersiege,  scenes  of  violence  and 
heroism  and  romance.  Richly  laden  caravans  once  came 
galloping  into  the  town,  sometimes  closely  beset  by  ban- 
dits or  hostile  Apaches,  and  weary  adventurers  from 
the  land  of  Daniel  Boone  or  Washington  dismounted, 
and  looked  bewildered  about  them  at  this  gay  and  alien 
civilization.  Here  the  Pueblo  Indians,  in  their  final 
revolt,  besieged  the  white  settlers,  and  committed  the 
only  violences  in  their  long  career  of  patience,  and  here 
the  conquering  De  Vargas  finally  overcame  them,  and 
surrounded  by  Franciscan  monks,  offered  mass  for  his 
victory.  Dominating  the  Plaza  is  the  three  century  old 
Governor's  Palace,  whose  walls  conceal  prehistoric  In- 
dian foundations.  It  is  a  one-story  building  running 
half  the  length  of  the  square,  built  in  a  day  when  hos- 
pitality demanded  royal  scope.  Half  inn,  half  fort,  its 
six-foot  thick  walls  stood  for  strength  as  well  as  cool- 
ness, and  its  mighty  doors  frequently  knew  the  marks 
of  assault.  In  modern  times,  until  the  beginning  of  this 
century  it  served  as  residence  of  the  governor  of  the 
Territory.  In  a  back  room,  Lew  Wallace  is  said  to  have 
written  chapters  of  Ben  Hur. 

No  question  but  that  the  Palace  might  be  made  more 
interesting  as  a  Museum,  less  a  storehouse  of  half  for- 
gotten oddments.  It  might  tell  less  spasmodically  and 


1 62  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

with  greater  dignity  the  story  of  its  successive  occupa- 
tions, from  the  Royal  Governor  of  Spain  to  the  present 
time.  It  creates  the  impression  now  of  having  been 
forgotten,  except  as,  at  intervals,  a  legacy  of  antiquities 
was  deposited  wholesale,  without  selection.  The  ex- 
hibits should  be  pruned,  gaps  filled,  and  arranged  with 
better  proportion  and  consecutiveness. 

It  might  well,  indeed,  take  a  leaf  from  the  book  of 
the  new  Museum,  built  on  the  same  side  of  the  Plaza. 
Its  exterior  skilfully  assembles  various  parts  of  nearby 
buildings  of  Pueblo  architecture.  Its  corners  copy  the 
towers  of  Laguna,  Taos  and  Acoma.  The  warm  stucco 
walls  are  studded  with  pinon  vegas,  and  the  doorways, 
windows  and  balconies  are  of  cedar,  deep-set  in  the  thick 
walls.  An  infant  art-gallery,  fed  from  the  local  Santa 
Fe  and  Taos  schools,  sometimes  according  to  Holt  and 
sometimes  on  Cubist  pickles  and  doughnuts,  does  the 
double  service  of  giving  the  artist  permanent  exhibition- 
rooms,  and  illustrating  local  color  for  the  tourist. 

I  mean  no  disparagement  here  against  the  Santa  Fe 
school,  which  numbers  several  names  of  national  reputa- 
tion. The  country  cries  to  be  painted  in  vividest  colors ; 
Nature  here  is  in  vermilion  mood,  and  man  tops  her 
gayety  with  slouching  insouciance,  sky-blue  shirts,  and 
head-bands  giving  the  needful  splash  of  scarlet.  Add 
skies  as  blue  as  a  spring  sun  can  stipple  them,  dash  across 
them  a  blur  of  pink  apricot  bloom,  bank  them  against 
cliffs  of  red-orange,  pure  gold  where  the  light  strikes  it, 
and  grape  purple  in  the  shadows,  tone  with  the  warm 
gray  of  a  pueblo  clustered  about  a  sky-blue  stream,  and 
fringed  yellow-green  cottonwoods  bordering  it, — and 
what  artist  can  paint  with  sobriety?  That  a  few  manage 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE   163 

it  is  to  their  credit,  nor  can  one  wonder  that  this  riot  of 
color  goes  to  the  heads  of  others  till  their  canvasses  look 
like  an  explosion  in  a  vegetable  garden. 

Tucked  away  in  another  street  off  the  Plaza  stands 
the  old  Cathedral,  begun  in  1612.  As  cathedrals  go  it 
is  an  unimpressive  example  of  the  worst  period  of  church 
architecture :  to  the  usual  trappings  of  its  interior  is 
added  the  barbaric  crudity  of  the  Mexican  in  church  art; 
an  art  like  the  French  Canadian's,  naive  and  literal.  It 
must  show  the  bleeding  heart  much  ensanguined,  the 
wounds  of  Christ  fresh  with  gore,  and  its  doll-faced 
saints  covered  with  lace  and  blue  satin,  like  fashion  plates 
of  Godey's  Ladies.  What  interests  me  in  this  as  in 
other  churches  of  the  Southwest  is  the  colossal  ironic 
joke  on  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  and  Puritans,  whose  con- 
temporary efforts  on  the  stern  rock-bound  eastern  coast 
were  just  about  offset  by  the  equally  earnest  efforts  of 
the  Spanish  padres  on  the  cactus-ridden  desert  of  the 
west.  However,  what  each  bequeathed  of  value  has 
remained  to  build  a  vaster,  freer,  and  perhaps  better 
community  than  either  unwitting  opponent  previsioned. 

Quite  Colonial,  and  oddly  reminiscent  of  New  Eng- 
land is  the  Governor's  mansion  of  today,  across  from 
the  present  Capitol,  which  like  every  Capitol  in  the 
United  States  rears  a  helmet  shaped  dome.  In  the 
houses  of  this  New  Mexican  government  occurs  a  phe- 
nomenon unknown  to  any  other  state :  two  languages  are 
officially  spoken,  Mexican  and  English,  with  an  inter- 
preter to  make  each  side  intelligible  to  the  other.  I  do 
not  know  whether  this  bilingual  Assembly  and  Senate 
produces  twice  as  much  verbiage  as  the  usual  legislature 


1 64  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

or  whether  the  two  tongues  serve  as  a  deterrent  to 
oratory. 

New  Mexico,  it  must  be  remembered,  is  more  Indian 
and  Mexican  than  American  by  a  proportion  of  three  to 
one,  and  includes  a  sprinkling  of  negro  and  Chinese. 
The  Indian  lends  a  touch  of  the  primitive;  the  Mexican 
brings  Spain  into  the  picture.  In  doorways  painted  sky 
blue  or  lavender,  swarthy  women  gossip,  in  mantilla  and 
fringed  black  shawl.  Against  a  shady  wall,  in  sash  and 
sombrero,  all  but  too  lazy  to  light  the  inevitable  ciga- 
rette, slouches  a  Mexican  who  should  be  working.  On 
Sundays  and  fete  days,  the  roads  about  Sante  Fe  are 
splashed  with  the  vivid  colors  of  the  girls'  frocks, — 
pinks,  purples  and  scarlet  accenting  the  inevitable  black 
of  the  women's  dress, — as  they  make  their  way  under 
fringy  cottonwoods  to  some  country  alberge.  The  sound 
of  a  jerky  accordion  usually  follows  them  up  the  canyon 
roads. 

Mostly  the  Mexicans  are  gregarious,  keeping  to  their 
own  quarters  in  Santa  Fe,  and  their  own  villages  further 
out  in  the  country,  often  near  an  Indian  pueblo  of  the 
same  name,  as  at  Taos  and  at  Tesuque,  famed  for  its 
grotesque  Indian  godlets.  All  about  Santa  Fe  these 
little  adobe  towns,  Chimayo,  Teuchas,  Cuamunque,  Po- 
joaque,  Espanola,  Alcalde  and  Pecos,  lie  in  some  fertile 
river  valley,  surrounded  by  their  fruit  trees  and  alfalfa 
fields.  The  Mexicans,  though  indolent,  understand  truck 
farming  thoroughly.  Like  their  occupations,  their  rec- 
reations are  primitive.  They  have  their  own  dances, 
where  the  men  sit  on  one  side  of  the  room  and  the  girls, 
giggling  and  shoving,  at  the  other,  until  some  bold  swain 
sets  the  ball  rolling.  Then  it  does  not  cease  to  roll,  fast 


AGAINST  A  SHADY  WALL,  ALL  BUT  TOO  LAZY  TO  LIGHT  THE  INEVITABLE 
CIGARETTE,  SLOUCHES,  WHEREVER  ONE  TURNS,  A  MEXICAN. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE  165 

and  furious,  till  morning,  often  ending  in  some  tragic 
fray,  where  a  knife  flashes. 

They  have  their  own  schools  and  churches; — and 
almost  always,  at  the  end  of  the  town,  a  little  window- 
less  house  which  looks  like  a  church.  The  Americano  is 
unwise  who  attempts  to  enter,  or  even  ask  questions 
concerning  this  building.  It  is  the  morado,  or  brother- 
hood house,  of  a  secret  sect  called  the  Penitentes,  who 
have  been  described  briefly  in  certain  books  on  this 
locality,  but  are  almost  unknown  to  the  outside  world. 
The  sect  is  entirely  Mexican,  not  Indian,  as  has  fre- 
quently been  misstated.  Only  a  very  few  Indians  have 
ever  become  Penitentes,  and  most  of  the  race  hold  the 
idea  in  abhorrence.  Survival  of  a  cult  which  flourished 
in  Spain  four  centuries  ago,  the  practice  was  brought  to 
Old  Mexico,  of  which  New  Mexico  was  then  a  part,  by 
some  Franciscans  who  followed  the  conquistadores.  In 
Lisbon,  in  1801,  a  procession  of  flagellants  went  through 
the  streets.  This  seems  to  have  been  the  latest  outbreak 
in  Europe,  yet  in  our  own  United  States  it  stubbornly 
persists  today,  despite  the  utmost  the  Catholic  church 
can  do  to  discourage  this  horrible  self-torture. 

We  had  the  very  good  fortune  to  enter  Santa  Fe 
during  Holy  Week.  All  along  our  route,  through  the 
little  Mexican  towns  bordering  the  Rio  Grande,  church 
bells  were  ringing,  and  Mexicans  in  gala  array  riding  to 
special  services  on  pintos,  burros,  or  in  carts  laden  with 
entire  families  of  eight  or  ten.  When  we  reached  our 
hotel,  three  miles  out,  for  adequate  hotels  for  some 
strange  reason  do  not  exist  in  Santa  Fe,  we  were  invited 
to  go  "Penitente  Hunting."  The  sport  is  not  without 
its  dangers.  Strangers  who  venture  too  near  the  mysteri- 


1 66  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

ous  processions  have  been  shot,  and  only  the  most  fool- 
hardy would  seek  to  go  near  the  morado. 

We  learned  that  while  the  members  are  quiescent  dur- 
ing the  year,  committing  whatever  laxities  of  conduct  seem 
good  to  them,  Holy  Week  heaps  on  them,  voluntarily,  the 
ashes  of  bitter  atonement.  On  Monday,  they  gather  in 
their  morado,  and  enter  on  a  week  of  fasting,  ritual, 
and  self-inflicted  torture.  To  a  few  selected  by  the  high 
priests  of  the  order  is  given  the  honor,  from  their  point 
of  view,  of  taking  upon  themselves  the  sins  of  all.  They 
endure  incredible  torments;  some  lie  on  beds  of  cactus 
the  entire  week,  others  wear  the  deadly  cholla  bound  on 
their  backs  or  inserted  under  the  flesh.  Every  Penitente 
bears  on  his  back  the  mark  of  the  Cross,  slit  into  his 
skin  with  deep  double  gashes  at  his  initiation  into  the 
sect.  These  wounds  are  re-opened  each  year.  Weak 
from  flogging,  with  blood  raining  from  their  backs  till 
old  wounds  mingle  with  the  new,  eating  only  food  brought 
to  the  morado  at  nightfall  by  their  women,  these  vicarious 
sufferers  come  forth  on  Good  Friday  to  the  culmination 
of  their  agony. 

Santa  Fe  was  agog  with  rumors.     At  one  town  we 
heard  the  penitentes  would  not  leave  their  morado,  r 
senting  the  growing  publicity  their  rites  attracted.     A 
other,  further  from  civilization,  was  to  show  a  cruci 
fixion,  with  ghastly  fidelity  even  to  the  piercing  of  hand 
and  feet, — a  fate  for  which  the  honored  victim  begged. 
Loomis  has  related  this   circumstance   as   a   fact,   and 
rumor  of  the  year  previous  to  our  arrival  gave  it  con 
firmation. 

Early  Good  Friday  morning,  our  party  drove  in  an 
out  the  valleys,  fording  to  our  hubs  streams  that  yesterdaj 


A  MEXICAN  MORADO,  NEW  MEXICO. 
The  Americano  is  unwise  who  attempts  to  enter  or  even  ask  questions  concerning  this  building. 


THE  MUSEUM  OF  SANTA  FE. 
Its  corners  copy  the  towers  of  Laguna,  Taos,  and  Acoma, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE  167 

were  mere  trickles,  and  tomorrow,  augmented  by  melting 
mountain  snows,  would  be  raging  torrents.  New  Mexico 
has  few  working  bridges.  One  fords  a  stream,  if  it 
seems  sufficiently  shallow,  or  waits  a  day  or  week  at 
the  nearest  hotel  for  it  to  subside.  Rivers  were  fast 
leaving  their  bounds  this  morning,  but  we  managed  to 
cross  in  time  to  arrive  at  Alcalde  before  ceremonies  had 
begun. 

Built  like  most  adobe  pueblos,  Indian  and  Mexican, 
about  a  straggling  square,  this  little  village  furnished  a 
good  vantage  for  Americans  to  see  and  to  be  observed, 
— watched  with  quiet  hostility  by  idling  natives.  Cross- 
currents of  ill  feeling  we  sensed  intangibly;  not  only  did 
the  village  as  a  whole  bristle  toward  us,  but  it  contained 
two  sects  of  flagellants,  and  two  morados,  whose  families 
were  fiercely  partisan;  and  in  addition  these  were  op- 
posed by  the  native  element  of  strict  Catholics  who, 
obeying  the  mandates  of  the  Church,  frowned  on  the 
fanatic  religionists.  We  were  warned  not  to  take  pic- 
tures nor  show  our  cameras,  nor  to  follow  the  procession 
too  closely.  Our  presence  was  barely  tolerated,  and  our 
innocent  attempts  to  become  an  inconspicuous  part  of 
the  landscape  met  with  scowls  and  uncomplimentary  re- 
marks. Perhaps  they  were  justified;  the  desire  to 
guard  one's  religious  rites  from  curious  eyes  is  a  high 
instinct,  which,  no  matter  how  effacingly  we  "hunted  peni- 
tentes,"  we  were  violating. 

The  saints  in  the  whitewashed  church  had  been  dressed 
for  the  occasion  in  new  ribbons  and  laces.  On  a  low 
wheeled  platform  stood  a  crudely  painted  figure  of 
Christ,  his  eyes  bandaged  with  the  pathetic  purpose  of 
saving  him  from  the  sight  of  the  agony  to  come  to  his 


i68 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


followers.  With  him  were  other  figures;  one  I  think 
was  Judas,  with  his  bag  of  silver  and  mean  grimace. 
Soon  from  the  morado  came  a  short  procession  of  men 
and  boys,  weak-kneed  and  trembling,  clad  only  in  cotton 
drawers  and  shirts  which  speedily  became  ensanguined 
from  wounds  made  by  hidden  thorns.  They  walked 
with  a  peculiar  swaying  motion,  as  if  their  knees  were 
broken.  Three  of  them,  no  more  than  boys,  bore  great 
crosses  of  foot-square  timber,  about  twenty  feet  long. 
The  heavy  ends  dragged  on  the  ground;  the  cross  beams 
rested  on  bent  backs,  on  which,  the  whisper  went,  were 
bound  the  spiky  cactus  whose  every  curved  needle  press- 
ing on  the  flesh  spells  torture.  Blood  ran  down  their 
shaky  legs,  joining  blood  already  crusted.  Their  faces 
were  hooded. 

A  band  of  flagellants  followed  who  as  yet  played  a  less 
active  part.  At  wide  intervals  over  the  scorching  desert 
were  planted  the  fourteen  stations  of  the  cross,  to  which 
the  three  principals,  barefooted,  dragged  their  burdens. 
At  each  they  rested  while  the  drama  of  that  station  was 
enacted  as  crudely  and  literally  as  an  early  mystery  play. 
A  middle-aged  penitente  in  store  clothes,  fiercely  in 
earnest,  read  appropriate  passages  from  the  Mexican 
Bible,  stumbling  over  the  pronunciation.  Then  the  pro- 
cession chanted  responses,  and  the  brief  respite,  if  re- 
spite it  was  for  the  cross-bearers,  came  to  an  end.  At 
the  proper  station,  three  little  black-robed  Marys  broke 
from  the  crowd,  and  played  their  tragic  part. 

We  watched  in  suspense  the  slow  progress,  wondering 
if  the  martyrs  would  reach  their  goal  alive.  As  they 
neared  the  fourteenth  station,  one  of  the  "two  thieves" 
tottered,  and  had  to  be  supported,  half-fainting,  the  rest 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE  169 

of  the  way.  The  other  two  barely  managed  to  finish. 
Our  dread  was  heightened  lest  the  Mystery  be  carried 
to  its  bitter  close. 

No  printed  word  could  have  aroused  among  its  ignor- 
ant spectators  the  tense  devoutness  inspired  by  this 
medieval  drama.  Religion  to  many  of  us  has  become  a 
denatured  philosophy,  a  long  step  from  this  savage  bru- 
tality. Yet  have  we  any  substitute  which  will  so  kindle 
our  imagination  and  idealism  that  it  could  school  the  body 
to  endure  gladly  even  the  supreme  agony? 

During  the  heat  of  the  day,  all  was  silence  within  the 
morado  to  which  the  actors  had  retreated.  The  sob- 
bing Mexican  women  who  followed  the  procession  van- 
ished with  their  black  veils  into  their  houses,  some  per- 
haps to  await  news  of  the  death  or  collapse  of  their  men, 
which  not  infrequently  attends  the  Holy  Week  celebrants. 
Toward  dark,  over  the  country  side,  automobile  phares 
began  to  converge  toward  the  silent  morado.  The  world 
outside  had  taken  up  "penitente  hunting"  as  a  cold- 
blooded sport.  They  came  openly  baiting  the  penitentes, 
who  angered,  refused  to  appear.  Eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven ! 
We  left  our  darkened  car,  and  hid  ourselves  in  the  sand 
dunes  near  the  graveyard,  in  the  dark  shadow  of  a  clump 
of  pifions. 

We  waited  with  cramped  legs,  while  the  blue  sky  be- 
came black,  and  mysterious  shapes  loomed  up  in  an 
unspeakably  vast  and  lonely  country.  The  Flagellants 
were  still  sulking.  At  last,  a  light  across  the  river 
flickered,  swung,  and  started  down  a  distant  trail,  whose 
route  we  traced  by  an  occasional  lantern  glimmer  through 
masses  of  trees.  A  sweet,  weird  wail  floated  over  to  us 
on  a  gust  of  wind.  It  was  the  pito,  wild  and  high-pitched 


1 7o  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

flute,  making  a  most  dismal,  shivery  music.  The  pro- 
cession twisted  and  turned  toward  the  river.  We 
crouched  uncomfortably  by  our  sand  dunes,  not  daring  to 
make  a  sound  for  fear  it  might  be  carried  on  the  clear 
air.  Suddenly  came  a  chant,  broken,  taken  up  and 
dropped  by  voices  too  weak  to  modulate.  It  sounded 
unevenly,  as  spurts  of  energy  forced  it  from  tired  throats ; 
loud,  then  a  whisper.  The  chant  continued,  with  an 
ominous  new  sound  added;  a  thud,  thud,  thud,  regular 
and  pitiless,  the  fall  of  thongs  upon  flesh.  No  outcry 
came ;  only  the  chant  and  the  wail  of  the  pito  rose  louder. 

It  was  a  neighboring  sect  on  the  way  to  pay  a  visit  to 
our  morado.  Frequently  the  light  was  arrested,  and  the 
singing  stopped.  We  knew  then  they  were  paying  their 
devotions  at  one  of  the  heaps  of  stone,  rude  wayside 
memorials  seen  everywhere  in  this  locality,  erected  by 
the  Mexicans  to  their  dead,  some  of  whom  lie  in  battle- 
fields of  France.  Then  the  chant  continued,  the  thud, 
painful  enough  only  to  hear,  and  the  shuffle  of  feet,  in  a 
sort  of  weary  lockstep.  Across  the  river  another  light 
flickered  and  started.  Soon,  from  our  hiding-place  high 
over  the  valley,  we  could  see  half  a  dozen  processions, 
wending  up  and  down  through  the  hills. 

A  movement  from  the  direction  of  our  morado,  and 
the  pito  sounded  close  at  hand,  accompanied  by  the 
uneven  creak  of  a  rude  cart,  filling  us  with  a  delightful, 
terrifying  suspense.  So  close  that  we  could  have  touched 
them,  passed  chanting  men,  swinging  lights.  We  heard 
the  break  of  leaden  whips  on  their  bare  backs,  but  no 
groans.  It  was  the  procession  of  the  death  wagon,  on 
which  a  skeleton  was  strapped,  a  macabre  memento  mori 
borrowed  from  the  Middle  Ages.  The  gleaming  lantern 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE    171 

illumined   its   ribs   as   it   tottered   on  its   seat   in   grisly 
semblance  of  life. 

Suddenly  a  motor  drove  up  aggressively,  and  halted 
straight  across  the  path  of  the  death  wagon.  The  pito 
and  chanting  stopped.  A  crowd  quickly  gathered,  and 
angry  voices  made  staccato  demands.  The  car  remained 
insolently  unmoved,  blocking  the  penitentes'  most  private 
ceremony.  The  mob  was  angry  beyond  bounds  at  what 
to  the  most  unsympathetic  observer  was  gross  rudeness, 
but  to  them  was  outrageous  sacrilege.  Pistols  were 
drawn.  The  increasing  numbers  of  penitentes  surround- 
ing the  car  buzzed  like  swarming  hornets  whose  nest  has 
been  smashed,  and  who  hunt  the  marauder  with  vicious 
intent.  Then  came  a  heavy  voice  from  the  car,  a  moment 
of  confusion,  and  the  crowd  melted  away,  muttering  but 
evidently  cowed,  while  the  car  moved  arrogantly  for- 
ward. Puzzled,  we  asked  for  explanations. 

"That  fellow  in  the  car  owns  the  big  store  where  all 
those  greasers  trade.  They  buy  on  credit,  run  in  debt, 
and  he  takes  a  mortgage  on  their  ranches  or  herds  of 
sheep.  Some  of  them  owe  him  two  or  three  thousand. 
They  were  all  ready  to  make  trouble  when  they  recog- 
nized him.  He  told  them  he  was  going  to  see  the  show, 
and  if  they  didn't  like  it  they  could  pay  what  they  owed 
him  tomorrow.  So  they  slunk  off.  He  is  a  German." 

Echt  deutsch! 

Barbarous  as  may  be  this  custom  of  flagellating, 
there  is  devout  belief  behind  it.  To  the  ignorant  Mexi- 
can stimulated  by  these  annual  reminders,  it  is  as  if,  as 
is  literally  true,  the  torture  and  anguish  had  occurred  to 
a  neighbor  in  his  home  town-  The  faces  of  the  men  and 
women,  even  of  little  children  witnessing  the  penitente 


172  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

rites,  showed  the  reality  to  them  of  what  to  most  of  us 
is  remote  as  the  legend  of  Hercules.  Faith  so  beautiful 
and  unusual  must  command  respect  no  matter  what 
arouses  it.  Yet  in  black  contrast  to  it  is  the  political 
and  moral  corruption  said  to  accompany  this  dangerous 
doctrine  of  expiation.  Being  especially  saintly  because 
of  their  endurance  test,  the  penitentes  during  the  rest 
of  the  year  commit  murder,  adultery,  theft  and  arson 
with  cheerful  abandon.  Nobody  dares  oppose  them  or 
revenge  their  excesses,  either  from  pious  veneration, 
fear,  or  a  knowledge  of  the  uselessness  of  such  a  pro- 
cedure. For  the  Penitentes  are  whispered  to  be  potent 
politically.  Membership  in  the  sect  is  kept  secret.  Many 
prominent  judges  and  state  politicians  are  said  to  be 
Penitentes.  If  a  fellow  member  is  brought  to  justice,  he 
gets  off  lightly  or  goes  scot-free,  and  strange  deaths  are 
predicted  for  enemies,  private  or  public,  of  the  sect.  I 
was  even  warned  not  to  write  of  them,  for  fear  their 
power  should  extend  beyond  the  state's  borders.  Doubt- 
less much  of  this  local  fear  is  exaggerated. 

But  I  predict  that  what  church  and  legislature  have 
failed  to  do,  the  ubiquitous  tourist  will  accomplish.  In 
the  more  remote  hill  towns,  services  still  reproduce  the 
incarnadined  Passion  with  all  its  horrors.  Nearer  to 
Santa  Fe,  the  flagellants  withdraw  closer  and  closer  into 
their  morados.  Without  an  audience  to  sympathize,  pain 
and  torture  become  less  tolerable.  No  man,  however 
sincere  he  believes  himself,  turns  Stylites  unless  his  pillar 
stands  in  the  market  place. 

Ten  miles  from  this  strange  Good  Friday  we  passed 
an  equally  strange  Easter  in  the  Indian  pueblo  of  San 
Yldefonso,  whose  many  generations  of  Catholicism  do 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE  173 

not  prevent  invoking  the  gods  who  have  given  service 
even  longer  than  the  Christian's  deities.  They  shake 
well  and  mix  them,  somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  my 
colored  laundress  who  confessed  she  always  wore  a  hoo- 
doo charm: — "Of  course  I'se  a  good  Christian,  too,  but 
the  Bible  says,  don't  it,  the  Law'd  he'ps  them  as  he'ps 
they-selves  ?" 

Somewhat  in  this  spirit,  Easter  Sunday  was  chosen  for 
the  Rain  Dance  which  was  to  end  a  long  drought.  For 
miles  we  passed  buckboards  carrying  large  Indian  fami- 
lies endimanchees  with  rainbow  hues;  Indian  bucks  on 
little  neat-footed  ponies,  their  square-chopped  raven  hair 
banded  with  scarlet  or  purple,  wearing  short  gay  velvet 
shirts,  buttoned  with  silver  shells  bartered  from  the 
Navajos,  white  cotton  trousers,  or  the  more  modern  blue 
overalls,  henna-colored  moccasins,  silver  buttoned  on 
their  tiny  feet.  Their  necks  and  waists  were  loaded  with 
wampum  and  turquoise-studded  silver,  their  faces  rouged. 

"Why  do  you  paint  your  face?'  we  asked  a  visiting 
Santa  Domingo  dandy. 

"Oh,  to  be  na-ice,"  he  replied  to  our  impertinence. 
"Why  don't  you  paint  yours?" 

Volumes  have  been  written  of  the  Pueblo  Indians'  folk- 
lore and  religion,  much  of  it  probably  wrong,  for  the 
Indian  has  a  habit  of  telling  what  he  thinks  you  want 
to  be  told,  and  concealing  exactly  what  he  wishes  to  con- 
ceal. His  religion  is  too  sacred  and  intimate  to  be 
revealed  to  the  first  inquirer.  While  he  has  a  sense  of 
humor,  which  some  people  persist  in  denying,  he  is,  like 
most  practical  jokers,  extremely  sensitive  to  ridicule, 
especially  when  directed  against  himself.  Always  a 
mystic,  he  finds  his  way  easily  where  the  Anglo-Saxon 


174 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


gropes.  The  common  lore  of  Strange  Things,  which 
he  shares  with  the  gypsy,  the  Hindu,  and  the  Jew,  races 
to  whom  he  bears  a  certain  physical  resemblance,  was 
his  centuries  before  he  adopted  clothes.  In  ordinary 
learning  he  remains  a  child,  albeit  a  shrewd  child,  yet  his 
eyes  are  open  in  realms  of  the  unknown.  He  hears  the 
rush  of  mighty  winds  through  the  heavens,  and  is  ac- 
quainted with  the  voice  of  the  thunder.  He  can  com- 
mune with  unseen  forces  without  the  trumpery  aid  of 
ouija  or  the  creaky  mechanism  of  science.  Though  he 
can  barely  add  and  hardly  knows  his  multiplication  tables, 
I  venture  to  guess  that  if  the  fourth  dimension  be  ever 
demonstrated,  the  Indian  will  be  found  to  have  had  a 
working  knowledge  of  it,  and  will  accept  it  as  a  com- 
monplace to  his  tribe  and  his  medicine  men. 

In  the  Casa  Grande  ruins  is  a  tiny  hole  through  which 
the  sun  shines  the  first  day  it  crosses  the  vernal  equinox. 
Like  the  lens  of  a  telescope,  this  focusses  into  other  tiny 
holes  in  other  parts  of  the  building.  Why  it  is  there 
nobody  knows,  but  it  indicates  a  knowledge  of  astronomy 
which  places  the  prehistoric  Pima  on  equal  footing  with 
modern  scientists.  Before  the  Zuni  Indians  knew  a  white 
race  existed,  according  to  Gushing,  Powell  and  the  musi- 
cian Carlos  Troyer,  they  had  evolved  the  theory  of 
prismatic  rays  coming  from  the  sun,  and  had  established 
a  fixed  relation  between  color  and  sound  tones,  anticipat- 
ing by  some  centuries  Mr.  Henderson  and  others.  Their 
medicine  men  took  shells,  found  in  their  magic  Corn 
Mountain,  a  giant  mesa  overshadowing  the  village, 
polished  them  to  tissue  thinness,  and  then  painted  each 
shell  a  pure  color,  corresponding  to  the  colors  of  the 
prism.  One  by  one  they  placed  these  shells  over  the  ear, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE   175 

nearest  the  sun.  The  corresponding  color  ray  from 
the  sun  would  strike  a  musical  note  so  powerful  that 
care  had  to  be  taken  to  prevent  the  ear  drum  being 
broken.  These  absolute  color-tones  the  medicine  men 
noted,  and  used  exclusively  in  sacred  ceremonies,  but  did 
not  permit  their  use  in  secular  music.  Are  the  red  men 
more  subtly  attuned  to  rhythms  of  the  universe  than  the 
superior  white  race?  Has  the  dirty,  half-naked  medicine- 
man somehow  found  the  parent  stem  of  the  banyan-tree 
of  life,  while  we  are  still  digging  around  its  off-shoots? 
But  this  is  a  long  digression  from  the  sunlit  plaza, 
splashed  with  the  scarlet  Pendleton  blankets  and  sky- 
blue  jerkins  of  visiting  chiefs,  and  the  pink  sateen 
Mother-Hubbard  of  the  squaw  next  me,  whose  too  solid 
flesh  was  anchored  with  pounds  and  pounds  of  silver  and 
turquoise, — enough  to  pawn  at  the  trader's  for  a  thou- 
sand or  two  of  bahana  money.  To  our  questions  of  the 
symbolism  of  the  dance  they  made  child-like  answers:  it 
is  to  umake  rain," — mucha  agua  (Spanish  is  the  lingua 
franca  of  the  Pueblo  Indian).  Babies  in  every  state  of 
dress  from  a  string  of  wampum  up,  crowded  shyly  for 
our  fast  melting  chocolates ;  aged  crones,  half-blind  from 
the  too  prevalent  trachoma,  hospitably  invited  us  into 
their  neat  white-washed  living  rooms,  or  offered  us  chairs 
at  their  doorways.  Doors  were  wide  open;  the  town 
kept  open  house.  It  gave  us  an  opportunity  to  see  their 
houses  without  prying.  Our  first  reaction  was  surprise 
at  their  universal  ship-shapeness.  We  saw  dirt  floors, 
on  which  two  or  three  pallets  were  folded  in  neat  rows, 
or  in  the  grander  houses,  a  white  enamel  bed  with  one 
sheet  only,  and  a  lace  counterpane;  a  crucifix  and  two 
or  three  portraits  of  saints  on  the  walls,  next  a  gayly 


176  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

flowered  cover  of  some  seed  catalogue ;  a  rafter  hung  with 
rugs,  clothing,  and  strings  of  wampum  and  silver;  slings 
in  which  the  beds  are  suspended  at  night,  and  a  blackened 
stone  fireplace  in  the  corner.  And  nearly  always,  a 
blooming  plant  in  a  tin  can  on  the  wide  windowsill,  and 
a  lilac  bush  just  outside. 

Houses  are  strategically  situated  in  a  Pueblo  village 
to  permit  of  every  one  knowing  everything  which  goes  on. 
If  a  dog  barks,  or  a  stranger  takes  a  snap-shot  without 
toll,  twenty  women  are  at  their  doors  shouting  maledic- 
tion. There  can  be  no  secrets, — gossip  screamed  cat-a- 
corners  across  a  plaza  with  a  face  at  every  door  and 
window  and  the  roofs  thronged  loses  much  of  its 
piquancy. 

But  before  the  dance  a  certain  decorum  prevailed. 
This  Rain  dance,  we  were  told,  was  especially  sacred. 
Then,  whooping  and  performing  monkey  antics,  two 
strange  figures,  mostly  naked  except  for  some  horizontal 
stripes  painted  with  grease  paint  on  their  legs  and  bodies, 
leaped  down  the  outside  stairway  of  the  priesthouse. 
Horns  adorned  their  heads,  and  a  tail  apiece  eked  out 
their  scanty  costume.  They  turned  somersaults,  seized 
women  by  the  waist  and  waltzed  with  them,  hit  each 
other  playfully  over  the  head  with  sticks,  rushed  into 
houses,  and  came  out  with  pails  of  food,  whereat  they 
squatted  in  the  plaza,  and  ate  with  simulated  gusto. 
They  were  the  koshari,  or  delight-makers, — the  heredi- 
tary clowns  who  open  the  dance  ceremonies.  Like  the 
ancient  Lords  of  Misrule,  they  are  king  for  the  day,  and 
all  must  obey  their  fantastic  whims.  They  are  licensed 
plunderers,  privileged  to  rush  into  any  house,  which  must 
be  left  open,  and  run  off  with  anything  which  takes  their 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE    177 

fancy.  Possibly  because  the  koshari  availed  themselves 
too  enthusiastically  of  this  part  of  their  priestly  office, 
it  is  now  the  custom  to  set  out  food  for  them,  to  which 
they  are  supposed  to  confine  themselves. 

One  koshari  was  tottering  and  blind,  steering  himself 
with  a  cane,  and  the  brusque  aid  of  his  companion,  a  fat 
young  rascal  who  would  have  been  funny  in  any  lan- 
guage. He,  poor  soul,  no  longer  amusing,  contented 
himself  with  rushing  about  on  his  withered  legs,  and 
uttering  feeble  yelps  in  concert  with  his  colleague.  The 
dancers  followed,  all  young  men, — some  in  their  teens, 
— and  began  a  solemn  march  around  the  village  preced- 
ing the  dance.  Necklaces  of  evergreen  wreaths  com- 
prised their  costume  from  the  waist  up,  two  eagle 
feathers  topped  their  hair,  short  white  hand-woven  skirts 
reached  to  the  knee,  with  an  occasional  fox  skin  hang- 
ing behind,  and  at  the  side  red,  white  and  green  tassels 
of  wool.  The  limbs  and  bodies  were  painted;  at  the 
ankles  tortoise  shells  rattled,  and  gourds  in  their  hands 
shook  with  silvery  precision.  In  moccasins  edged  with 
skunk  fur,  they  stamped  in  light,  unvarying  rhythm,  first 
on  one  foot,  then  the  other,  wheeling  in  sudden  gusts,  not 
together,  but  in  a  long  rhythmic  swell  so  accurately 
timed  to  undulate  down  the  line  that  each  foot  was  lifted 
a  fraction  higher  than  the  one  in  front.  They  sang 
quietly,  with  the  same  shuddering  little  accent  their 
gourds  and  feet  maintained,  at  intervals  stressing  a  note 
sharply,  in  absolute  accord.  Two  women,  young  and 
comely,  in  the  heavy  black  squaw  dress  and  white  doe- 
skin leggins  of  the  Pueblo  woman,  squatted  midway 
before  the  line  of  lithe  dancers,  and  beat,  beat  all  through 
the  day  on  their  drums,  while  all  through  the  day,  lightly, 


i78 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


sharply,  the  moccasined  feet  were  planted  and  lifted, 
with  a  snap  and  re-bound  as  if  legs  and  rippling  bodies 
covered  not  sinews,  but  springs  of  finely  tempered  steel, 
timed  to  hair  trigger  exactness.  Their  lean  faces  wore 
an  intent  look,  hardly  heeding  the  antics  of  the  koshari 
who  gamboled  around  them,  standing  on  their  heads, 
tumbling,  shouting,  and  pulling  each  other's  tails  like 
monkeys.  About  evergreen  trees  planted  in  the  center, 
they  pivoted  to  all  four  points  of  the  compass.  The 
dance  varied  little.  The  song,  the  tombes,  the  shivery 
gourds  and  shells,  the  syncopated  beat  of  each  tireless 
foot  on  the  earth  became  a  background  to  the  color  and 
picnic  movement  of  the  village,  drowsy  in  the  sunshine, 
steaming  with  the  odors  of  people,  dogs,  jerked  beef, 
cedar  smoke  and  buckskin,  whiffs  of  lilac,  fresh  willow, 
snowy  sprays  of  wild  pear,  and  a  wet  breeze  from  the 
Rio  Grande. 

Because  rain  in  that  parched  country  is  literally  life, 
the  Indians  hold  this  rain  dance  too  sacred  to  admit  as 
participants  any  women  save  the  two  who  beat  the  drums. 
"Tomorrow,"  said  the  fat  young  kosharl,  "nice  dance. 
We  dance  with  the  girls  then." 

I  dare  not  claim  any  authority  for  the  interpretation 
of  the  costumes  of  the  Rain  Dance.  Several  natives  of 
the  pueblo,  including  quiet-eyed  Juan,  the  governor,  gave 
us  various  versions  which  did  not  tally  in  every  particu- 
lar. We  had  learned  that  an  Indian's  meaning  of  a  lie, 
which  he  is  fairly  scrupulous  in  avoiding,  does  not  include 
the  answers  to  questions  touching  his  cherished  customs 
and  the  private  code  of  his  race.  The  evergreen,  all 
agreed,  stood  for  fertility  or  verdure ;  the  eagle  feathers, 
with  their  white  and  black  tips,  for  the  black  and  white 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE  179 

of  slashing  rain  and  lowering  clouds;  the  yellow  fox- 
skins  represented  the  yellow  of  ripe  corn;  the  red  and 
green  tassels  at  the  waist  the  flowers  and  grass  of  spring; 
the  white  tassels,  snow  or  hail.  The  symbolism  of  the 
thunder  clouds  was  repeated  in  the  black  and  white  of 
the  skunk  fur  moccasins;  the  gourds  echoed  the  swish 
of  rain,  and  the  drum-beats  the  rumble  of  the  thunder; 
the  tortoise  shell  rattles  at  the  ankle  meant  either  rain 
and  wind,  or  were  a  symbol,  like  the  shell  necklaces  most 
of  them  wore,  of  the  ocean,  which  all  desert  tribes  espe- 
cially revere,  as  the  Father  of  all  Waters. 

During  the  dance  the  fat  and  impudent  koshari 
honored  me  with  a  command, — "You  take  me  and  my 
chum  for  a  ride?"  Fat  and  very  naked,  covered  with 
melting  grease  paint,  and  ferocious  in  horns  and  tail,  he 
was  not  the  sort  of  companion  I  would  have  chosen  for  a 
motor  drive,  but  a  refusal  might  have  prompted  him  to 
expel  us  from  the  village.  On  a  fete  day,  the  lightest 
word  of  a  koshari  is  law.  He  clambered  in,  and  moved 
over  to  make  room  for  his  chum,  a  loathsome  and  mangy 
old  fellow,  with  rheumy,  sightless  eyes,  whose  proximity 
filled  me  with  disgust.  Tottering  with  age  and  excite- 
ment, his  first  move  was  to  clutch  the  steering  wheel,  and 
when  I  had  disengaged  his  claws,  he  grasped  the  lever 
with  an  iron  grip.  Meanwhile,  thirteen  brown  babies, 
some  of  whom  had  been  bathed  as  recently  as  last  year, 
climbed  into  the  tonneau.  We  whirled  around  and 
around  the  plaza,  the  children  shouting,  dogs  barking, 
the  fat  koshari  bowing  like  visiting  royalty  to  the  cheer- 
ing spectators,  uttering  shrieks  in  my  ear  to  take  me  off 
guard,  kicking  his  heels  in  the  air,  or  sliding  to  the 
floor  as  a  too-daring  visitor  tried  to  snap  his  picture, 


182 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


Acoma,"  on  the  Arizona  road  is  built  atop  a  high  mesa, 
facing  the  still  higher  Enchanted  Mesa,  now  peopled 
only  by  troubled  ghosts.  Doubtless  the  first  Indians  to 
advance  from  cave  dwellings  to  mesas  felt  as  emanci- 
pated as  the  first  New  Englander  who  left  the  old  home- 
stead for  a  modern  apartment-house.  Further  east  the 
rock-bastioned  villages  of  the  Hopis  still  carry  on  the 
customs  of  their  kin,  if  not  their  ancestors.  At  Taos  and 
Laguna  the  timid  Pueblos  finally  ventured  down  to  the 
ground,  but  retained  the  style  of  the  mesas  and  cliff 
dwellings,  of  terraced  receding  houses,  several  stories 
high.  The  final  and  most  modern  adaptation  are  the 
one-story,  squat  little  adobe  houses  of  the  river  pueblos, 
whose  dwellers  have  shaken  off  entirely  the  ancestral 
fear,  and  raise  corn  and  alfalfa,  melons  and  apricots  on 
the  rich  irrigated  soil. 

The  journey  to  Frijoles  is  worth  risking  a  fall  over 
precipices  as  one  dashes  over  switchbacks  of  incom- 
parable dizziness  on  roadbeds  of  unsanctified  roughness. 
From  Buckman,  if  the  bridge  is  not  washed  away  by  the 
floods,  like  most  bridges  about  Santa  Fe,  the  ascent 
starts  to  the  neat  little,  green  little  Rito  de  los  Frijoles, 
— Bean  Valley  is  its  unpoetical  English.  No  motorist 
should  undertake  this  trip  with  his  own  car  unless  he 
thinks  quickly,  knows  his  machine  thoroughly,  and  is 
inoculated  against  "horizontal  fever."  The  road  climbs 
past  orange  hills  up  blue  distances,  through  warmly 
scented  forests  of  scrub  pinon,  with  a  vista  of  the  river 
far  below.  At  the  top  the  car  must  be  abandoned,  for 
nothing  wider  than  a  mule  can  manage  the  descent  into 
the  canyon. 

A  precipitous  and  dusty  trail  drops  to  a  refreshing 


CAVE  DWELLINGS  IN  THE  PUMICE  WALLS  OF  CANYON  DE  LOS  FRIJOLES, 

SANTA  FE. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE   183 

little  valley,  long  and  narrow,  grown  with  shady  pines, 
and  watered  by  a  brook  which  was  probably  the  raison 
d'etre  for  the  city  so  many  ages  silent  as  the  sphinx  and 
dead  as  Pompeii.  In  a  beautiful  semi-circle,  so  sym- 
metrical and  tiny  seen  from  above  that  it  looks  like  a 
fantastic  design  etched  on  the  valley  floor,  lie  the  ruined 
walls  of  a  city  whose  people  were  the  first  families  of 
North  America.  It  is  hard  to  believe  this  peacefully 
remote  valley  ever  echoed  the  noise  of  playing  children, 
of  gossiping  women  and  barking  dogs.  The  dark- 
skinned  Jamshyd  who  ruled  here  left  speechless  stone 
walls  to  crumble  under  the  tread  of  the  wild  ass,  and 
whether  drought,  pestilence  or  murder  drove  him  and 
his  race  forth,  forsaking  their  habitations  to  the  eternal 
echoes,  nobody  knows.  He  was  timid,  or  he  would  not 
have  plastered  his  houses  like  swallows1  nests  in  the 
cliff,  or  huddled  them  together  in  this  remote  canyon, 
walled  in  against  more  aggressive  tribes.  He  was  agri- 
cultural, for  traces  of  his  gardens,  dust  these  centuries,, 
may  be  found.  Shard  heaps  of  pottery  designed  in  the 
red  and  black  pattern  that  dates  them  as  from  one  to 
two  thousand  years  old,  and  arrowheads  of  black  obsid- 
ian prove  he  knew  the  same  arts  as  the  Southwestern 
Indian  of  today.  Each  tribal  unit,  then  as  now,  had  its 
kiva,  or  underground  ceremonial  chamber  with  the  altar 
stone  placed  exactly  as  in  every  kiva  in  Utah,  Colorado 
or  Arizona. 

Parenthetically,  the  kiva  may  have  retained  its  popu- 
larity through  the  sunshiny  ages  because  it  offered  the 
men  of  the  tribe  a  complete  refuge  from  their  women- 
folk. Once  down  the  ladder,  they  need  not  pull  it  after 
them,  for  custom  forbade  and  still  forbids  a  squaw  of 


1 84 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


any  modesty  from  acting  as  if  the  kiva  were  within  a 
hundred  miles  of  her.  Once  inside,  the  men  folk  are  at 
liberty  to  whittle  their  prayer  sticks,  gossip,  swap  stories, 
and  follow  whatever  rituals  men  indulge  in  when  alone. 
It  is  as  bad  form  for  a  pueblo  woman  to  invade  the  kiva 
as  for  us  to  enter  a  men's  club, — with  the  difference  that 
no  kiva  had  a  ladies'  night.  Besides  furnishing  shelter 
to  the  henpecked  Benedicts,  the  kiva  became  a  sort  of 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  for  the  young  bucks.  In  ancient  times  the 
bachelors  of  the  tribe  slept  together  in  the  kiva,  their  food 
being  left  outside  the  entrance.  This  very  wise  pro- 
vision greatly  protected  the  morals  of  the  young  people, 
forced  to  live  in  very  close  juxtaposition. 

On  the  ridge  opposite  the  caves  of  Frijoles  lies  an 
unexplored  region  believed  to  be  the  summer  home  of 
the  race  who  lived  here  so  secretly  and  vanished  so  mys- 
teriously. In  a  few  years  the  excavator  may  discover 
among  the  shard  heaps  at  the  top  of  this  canyon  the 
reason  for  the  exodus,  but  at  present  more  is  known 
about  lost  Atlantis  than  these  ruins  in  our  "rawest"  and 
newest  corner  of  the  States. 

One  need  not  thrill  to  the  prehistoric,  however,  to 
enjoy  Santa  Fe,  especially  when  the  apricots  blur  the 
flaming  green  valley  with  a  rosy  mist.  All  trails  from 
the  sleepy  little  town  lead  to  the  perpetual  snows  of  the 
hills  through  scented  forests  of  pine,  past  roaring 
streams.  A  good  horse  will  clamber  up  the  bed  of  a 
waterfall,  leap  fallen  logs,  pick  his  way,  when  the  forest 
becomes  too  tangled,  over  the  slippery  boulders  of  the 
river,  canter  over  ground  too  rough  for  a  high-school 
horse  to  walk  upon,  and  bring  his  rider  out  to  the  top  of 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE  185 

some  high  ridge,  where  crests  of  blue  notch  against  crests 
of  paler  and  paler  blue,  without  end. 

Near  enough  to  Santa  Fe  to  be  reached  in  a  day  by 
motor  and  somewhat  longer  by  pack-train,  lies  the  en- 
chanting valley  locally  called  "The  Pecos."  One  mounts 
the  pifion-scented  red  trail,  studded  with  spring  flowers, 
to  the  heights  above,  where  to  breathe  the  air  of  dew 
and  fire  is  to  acquire  the  zip  of  a  two  year  old  colt  and 
the  serenity  of  a  seraph.  In  this  least  known  corner  of 
our  country,  the  Pecos  is  the  least  traveled  district, 
known  only  to  a  few  ranchmen,  and  old  guides  with  tall, 
"straight"  stories,  and  short,  twisted  legs, — mighty 
hunters  who  have  wrestled  barehanded  with  bears,  and 
stabbed  mountain  lions  with  their  penknives.  Sports- 
men are  only  beginning  to  know  what  the  streams  of 
the  Pecos  produce  in  trout,  and  its  wilderness  in  big 
game.  Given  a  good  horse,  a  good  guide,  good  "grub" 
and  a  comfortable  bedding  roll,  a  month  free  from 
entangling  alliances  with  business,  and  the  Pecos  pro- 
vides sound  sleep,  mighty  appetites,  and  air  two  miles 
high,  so  different  from  the  heavy  vapor  breathed  by  the 
city-dweller  that  it  deserves  a  name  of  its  own. 

Nobody  can  stay  long  in  Santa  Fe,  without  becoming 
aware  of  the  Rio  Grande's  influence  on  the  dwellers  in 
its  valley.  It  furnishes  not  only  their  livelihood,  but  little 
daily  happenings,  "So  and  So's  car  got  stuck  crossing  at 
Espanola,  and  had  to  stay  in  the  river  two  days," — "The 
river  rose  and  tore  down  the  bridge  at  Buckman,  and 
they  say  there  will  be  two  more  bridges  down  by  night." 
— "You  can't  get  out  at  Pojoaque,  this  week."  But  to 
see  the  river  in  its  magnificence,  one  should  drive  over 


i86 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


the  canyon  of  the  Rio  Grande,  following  along  the  pre- 
cipitous road  to  Taos. 

The  day  we  started  for  Taos,  rain  invoked  by  the 
prayerful  Pueblos  had  reduced  the  road-bed  to  a  sticky 
red  plaster  which  more  than  once  slid  our  car  gently 
toward  the  edge  and  a  drop  of  a  hundred  feet  or  more. 
Like  the  foolish  virgins  we  were,  we  had  forgotten  our 
chains.  To  put  on  the  brakes  would  invite  a  skid;  not  to 
do  so  meant  a  plunge  over  the  bank.  The  road,  like  an 
afterthought,  clung  for  dear  life  to  the  edge  of  a  series 
of  hills,  now  dipping  like  a  swallow  to  the  river  bed, 
then  after  the  usual  chuck-hole  at  the  bottom,  rising  in 
dizzy  turns  to  the  top  of  the  next  hill,  unwinding  before 
us  sometimes  for  miles.  Steep  cliffs,  and  narrow  gorges 
at  times  shut  us  completely  from  the  world.  Far  below, 
the  river  frothed  turbulently. 

Occasionally  as  we  took  a  turn,  a  bit  of  bank  caved 
in  with  us,  and  left  one  wheel  treading  air.  On  sharp 
curves  a  long  wheel  base  is  a  great  disadvantage.  The 
earth  is  liable  to  crumble  where  rain  has  softened  it  in 
gullies,  and  one  must  learn  to  keep  close  enough  to  the 
inside  edge  in  turning  to  prevent  the  back  wheels  from 
skimming  the  precipice,  and  yet  not  drive  the  front 
wheels  into  the  inside  bank.  Add  to  this  a  surface 
of  slick  mud  on  which  the  car  slides  helplessly,  heavy 
ruts  and  frequent  boulders,  steep  graded  curves  with 
gullies  at  the  bottom,  and  it  will  seem  less  surprising 
that  the  mail  driver  who  takes  his  own  car  and  his  life 
over  this  road  twice  a  week  to  Santa  Fe  receives  about 
three  times  the  wage  of  a  Harvard  professor. 

A  few  miles  before  reaching  Taos  we  left  the  canyon 
and  came  out  on  a  broad  plain.  The  first  sight  of  Taos 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE  187 

takes  one's  breath, — it  is  so  alien  to  America.  Ancient 
of  days,  it  suggests  Jerusalem  or  some  village  still  more 
remote  in  civilization.  Houses  terraced  to  five  and  even 
seven  stories  are  banked  against  purple  mountains,  thir- 
teen thousand  feet  in  the  air.  A  little  stream  winds  to 
the  walls  of  the  village,  dividing  it  in  two.  On  the  banks 
women  wash  clothes,  and  men  draw  primitive  carts  to 
the  water,  or  gallop  over  the  plain  like  Arabs  in  the 
flowing  white  robes  characteristic  to  Taos.  The  roofs 
of  the  square  plaster  houses,  terraced  one  above  the 
other,  are  peopled  with  naked  babies.  Women  wrapped 
in  shawls  of  virgin  blue  or  scarlet  outlined  against  the 
sky,  again  suggest  the  Orient.  Constantly  in  these 
Pueblos  one  is  reminded  of  the  Far  East  and  it  is  easy 
to  believe  these  Indians  of  the  Southwest,  of  sleek  round 
yellow  cheek  and  almond  eyes  are  of  Mongolian  stock. 
The  Grand  Canyon  old-timer,  William  Bass,  tells  of 
seeing  a  distinguished  Chinese  visitor  talk  with  ease 
to  some  Navajos  of  the  Painted  desert,  who,  he  re- 
ported, used  a  rough  Chinese  dialect.  In  the  Shoshone 
country,  I  myself  saw  Indians  enter  a  Chinese  restaurant, 
and  converse  with  the  slant-eyed  proprietor.  When  I 
asked  whether  they  were  speaking  Shoshone  or  Chinese, 
I  was  told  that  they  used  a  sort  of  lingua  franca,  and  had 
no  difficulty  in  understanding  each  other.  Oriental  or 
not,  the  origins  of  Taos  are  clouded  with  antiquity. 

Coronado  was  the  first  Aryan  to  visit  this  ancient 
pueblo,  and  we,  to  date,  were  the  last.  The  same  gentle 
courtesy  met  us  both.  We  were  given  the  freedom  of 
the  village,  invited  into  the  houses,  and  allowed  to  climb 
to  the  roof-tops,  with  the  governor's  pretty  little  daugh- 


188 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


ter  as  our  guide.  Taos,  like  all  pueblos,  has  a  republi- 
can form  of  government,  and  a  communal  life  which 
works  out  very  peaceably.  Annually  the  two  candidates 
for  governor  run  a  foot-race,  one  from  each  division  of 
the  town,  and  the  political  race  is  indeed  to  the  swift. 
Perhaps  they  get  as  good  governors  by  that  method  as 
by  our  own. 

Taos,  like  all  Gaul,  is  divided  into  tres  partes,  quarum 
unam  the  Cubists  incolunt.  No  place  could  be  more 
ideal  for  an  artist's  colony,  with  scenery  unsurpassed,  air 
clear  and  sparkling,  living  inexpensive,  picturesque 
models  to  be  had  cheaply,  and  little  adobe  houses  simply 
asking  to  become  studios.  San  Geronimo  de  Taos,  on 
the  Pueblo  Creek  belongs  to  the  Indians.  Ranchos  de 
Taos,  where  a  fine  old  mission  church,  bulwarked  with 
slanting  plaster  buttresses  has  stood  since  1778,  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  straggling  town,  is  given  over  to  Mexi- 
cans. The  middle  section,  once  famous  as  the  home 
town  of  Kit  Carson,  proclaims  by  its  blue  and  lavender 
doorways,  mission  bells,  fretted  balconies  and  latticed 
windows,  the  wave  of  self-consciousness  that  had  inun- 
dated American  Taos.  But  it  has  its  own  charm  and 
adapts  itself  admirably  to  the  native  dwellings.  Kit 
Carson's  old  home,  facing  a  magnificent  view  over  the 
river,  has  become  a  sumptuous  studio;  and  scaling  down 
from  that  to  the  most  humble  loft  over  a  stable,  every 
available  nook  in  the  town  is  commandeered  by  artists, 
where  every  style  of  art  is  produced  from  canvasses  out- 
niggling  Meissonier  to  the  giddy  posters  of  the  post- 
post-impressionists.  Regardless  of  results,  they  are 
lucky  artists  who  have  the  pleasant  life  and  brisk  ozone 


ARTIST'S  STUDIO  IN  TAGS,  NEW  MEXICO. 
No  place  could  be  more  ideal  for  an  artist  colony. 


CORONADO  WAS  THE  FIRST  WHITE  MAN  TO  VISIT  THIS  ANCIENT  PUEBLO 
AT  TAGS,  NEW  MEXICO. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  RIO  GRANDE  189 

of  Santa  Fe  in  the  winter,  enjoy  the  picturesque  Indian 
dances  in  spring  and  fall,  and  in  summer  paint  and  loaf 
in  the  purple  glory  of  the  Taos  mountains,  cooled  by 
frosty  air  blowing  from  the  two  and  a  half  mile  snow 
line. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SAYING  GOOD-BY  TO  BILL 

AS  the  spring  sun  daily  pushed  the  snow  line  higher  up 
toward  the  peaks  of  the  Sangre  de  Cristo,  and  the 
time  approached  when  we  must  leave  Santa  Fe,  Toby 
and  I  grew  sad  at  heart.  We  knew  we  must  begin  to 
think  of  saying  good-by  to  Bill. 

For  Bill  was  Santa  Fe's  most  remarkable  institution. 
He  was  surgeon  general  to  all  maimed  cars  in  a  radius 
of  twenty  miles.  We  had  encountered  mechanics  com- 
petent but  dishonest,  and  mechanics  honest  but  incom- 
petent, and  were  to  meet  every  other  variety, — careless, 
sloppy,  slow,  stupid,  and  criminally  negligent,  but  to 
Bill  belongs  the  distinction  of  being  the  most  honest, 
competent  and  intelligent  mechanic  we  met  in  eleven 
thousand  miles  of  garage-men.  Hence  he  shall  have  a 
chapter  to  himself. 

When  we  discovered  Bill,  we  permitted  ourselves  the 
luxury  of  a  complete  overhauling,  and  he,  after  one 
keen  non-committal  glance  at  our  mud-caked  veteran, 
silently  shifted  his  gum,  wheeled  the  car  on  to  the  turn- 
table, got  under  it  and  stayed  there  two  weeks.  Three 
months  of  mud,  sand,  and  water  had  not  crippled  the 
valiant  "old  lady,"  but  had  dented  her  figure,  and  left 
her  with  a  hacking  cough.  Her  dustpan  had  been  dis- 
carded, shred  by  shred,  three  spring  leaves  had  snapped, 

the  gear  chain,  of  whose  existence  I  learned  for  the  first 

190 


SAYING  GOOD-BY  TO  BILL  191 

time,  rattled ;  the  baking  sun  had  shrunk  the  rear  wheels 
so  that  they  oozed  oil,  the  batteries  needed  recharging, 
the  ignition  had  not  been  the  same  since  the  adventure 
of  the  mud-hole,  and  there  were  other  suspected  com- 
plications. Besides  which,  all  the  tires  flapped  in  the 
breeze,  cut  to  sheds  by  frozen  adobe  ruts,  and  a  few  tire 
rims  had  become  bent  out  of  shape.  A  thrifty  garage- 
man  could  have  made  the  job  last  a  year. 

Now  Bill  had  two  signs  which  every  good  mechanic  I 
ever  knew  bears, — a  calm  manner,  and  prominent  jaw- 
bones. Whenever,  during  our  hobo-ing  we  drove  into  a 
garage  and  were  greeted  by  a  man  with  a  grease  smudge 
over  his  right  eye,  and  a  lower  jaw  which  suggested  an 
indignant  wisdom  tooth,  we  learned  to  say  confidently 
and  without  further  parley,  "Look  the  car  over,  and  do 
anything  you  think  best."  It  was  infallible.  Nor  was 
our  confidence  in  Bill's  jaw-bone  misplaced,  for  at  the 
fortnight's  end,  Bill  rolled  her  out  of  the  garage,  shin- 
ing, sleek  and  groomed,  purring  like  a  tiger  cat,  quiet, 
rhythmic  and  bursting  with  unused  power.  He  had 
taken  off  the  wheels,  removed  the  cylinder  heads,  repaired 
the  ignition,  put  in  new  gear  chains  and  spark  plugs,  ad- 
justed the  carburetor  to  the  last  fraction,  loosened  the 
steering  wheel,  removed  the  old  lady's  wheeze  entirely, 
and  done  the  thousand  and  one  things  we  had  repeatedly 
paid  other  garagemen  to  do  and  they  had  left  undone. 
He  had  finished  in  record  time,  and  my  eye,  long  practised 
in  the  agony  of  computing  the  waste  motions  of  me- 
chanics, had  noted  Bill's  sure  accuracy  and  unhurried 
speed.  Not  content  with  this  much,  he  sent  in  a  reason- 
able bill,  in  which  he  failed  to  add  in  the  date  or  charge 
us  for  time  of  his  which  other  people  had  wasted.  In 


192 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


fact,  nobody  dared  waste  Bill's  time.  Over  his  work- 
bench hung  a  sign,  "Keep  out.  Regardless  of  your  per- 
sonality, this  means  YOU!"  We  took  a  trial  spin,  up  a 
cork-screw  and  nearly  vertical  hill,  the  local  bogey,  and 
made  it  on  high.  I  thanked  Bill  almost  with  tears,  for 
being  a  gentleman  and  a  mechanic. 

"I  always  claim,"  answered  Bill,  modestly,  "that  a 
man  aint  got  no  right  to  take  other  people's  money,  unless 
he  gives  'em  something  in  return.  When  I'm  on  a  job, 
I  try  to  do  my  best  work,  and  I  don't  figure  to  charge  no 
more  than  it's  worth." 

Ah,  Bill!  If  every  garagemaa  in  this  free  country 
adopted  your  code,  what  a  motorist's  Paradise  this  might 
be!  Almost  weeping  we  said  good-by  to  Bill  that  day 
— our  last  but  one,  we  thought,  in  Santa  Fe.  We  would 
have  liked  to  take  him  with  us,  or  at  least  to  have 
found  him  awaiting  us  at  each  night's  stop,  and  Bill 
was  gallant  enough  to  say  he  would  like  to  go. 

With  two  friends,  we  had  planned  an  excursion  to 
Chimayo,  where  in  the  Mexican  half  of  the  town  are 
made  soft,  hand-woven  rugs,  famous  the  world  over. 
On  the  way,  we  stopped  at  Pojoaque,  for  the  purpose  of 
seeing  the  old  road-house  made  famous  by  old  M.  Boquet 
of  fragrant  memory,  when  Santa  Fe  was  an  army  post, 
and  officers  rode  out  to  lively  supper  parties  here.  A 
tangled  orchard  and  flower  garden,  a  well  renowned  for 
its  pure  water,  and  the  quaint  little  Spanish  widow  of  M. 
Boquet  are  all  that  is  left  of  what  was  once  a  ship-shape 
inn  where  people  loved  to  stop.  The  rest  is  cobwebs  and 
rubbish.  But  any  spot  where  gaiety  has  been  enhanced 
by  good  food  is  always  haunted  by  memories  of  former 
charm. 


SAYING  GOOD-BY  TO  BILL  193 

At  the  sleepy  Indian  pueblo  of  Nambe,  now  fast  di- 
minishing, we  forded  a  trickle  of  a  stream,  hardly  wide 
enough  to  notice,  which  sported  down  from  the  hills. 
Then  out  into  a  sandy  waste,  surrounded  by  red  buttes, 
we  drove.  And  then  we  drove  no  further.  On  a  hill- 
top the  car  gently  ceased  to  move,  even  as  it  had  done 
outside  of  Chandler.  For  a  hot  hour  we  examined  and 
experimented,  till  we  finally  fastened  the  guilt  on  the  ig- 
nition. We  were  ten  miles  from  everywhere,  and  which 
were  the  shorter  ten  miles  we  were  not  exactly  sure.  Like 
the  hypothetical  donkey,  starving  between  two  bales  of 
hay,  we  wasted  time  debating  in  which  direction  to  go 
for  help.  An  Indian  riding  by  on  a  scalded  looking 
pony  we  interrogated,  but  like  all  of  his  race,  the  more  he 
was  questioned  the  less  he  contributed.  Much  against 
his  will,  we  rented  his  pony,  and  while  the  man  of  our 
party  rode  bareback  to  Pojoaque  and  the  nearest  tele- 
phone, we  coaxed  the  pony's  owner  from  his  sulks  with 
sandwiches.  Would  that  we  had  saved  them  for  our- 
selves ! 

Two  hours  later,  Bill  rattled  up,  in  a  car  shabby  as  a 
shoemaker's  child's  shoes,  and  as  disreputable  as  the 
proverbial  minister's  son.  Remembering  our  premature 
farewell,  he  grinned,  lifted  the  hood  of  the  car,  nosed 
about  for  a  moment,  called  sharply  to  his  ten-year-old 
assistant  for  tools,  and  in  two  minutes  the  engine  was 
running.  Smiling  just  as  cheerfully  as  if  his  farewell 
appearance  had  not  cost  us  twenty  dollars,  Bill  started 
his  car,  and  wished  us  good  luck. 

"I  wish  we  could  take  you  with  us,  Bill,"  I  said. 

"I  sure  wish  I  could  go,"  said  Bill. 

"Well,  good-by,  Bill." 


i94  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

"Good-by,  and  over  the  top,"  said  Bill,  driving  off. 

"I  hate  to  say  good-by  to  Bill,"  said  Toby  and  I,  to 
each  other. 

Thus  delayed,  it  was  twilight  when  we  reached  the  old 
Sanctuario,  famous  as  the  Lourdes  of  America.  Inside, 
its  whitewashed  walls  displayed  crutches  and  other  im- 
plements of  illness,  as  witness  to  the  cures  effected  by  the 
shrine.  The  interior  as  of  most  Mexican  churches,  was 
filled  with  faded  paper  flowers  and  tawdry  gilt  pictures 
of  saints.  Outside,  twin  towers  and  a  graceful  balcony, 
and  a  walled  churchyard  shaded  by  giant  cottonwoods 
gave  the  church  a  distinction  apart  from  all  its  miracles. 
At  a  brook  nearby,  a  majestic,  black-shawled  Mexican 
madonna  filled  her  olla,  mildly  cursing  us  that  the  fee 
we  gave  for  opening  the  gate  was  no  larger,  lest  we 
should  realize  it  had  been  too  large. 

Across  the  plaza  stood  a  fine  example  of  a  built-up 
kiva  or  estufa,  and  nearby  we  dared  a  glance,  in  pass- 
ing, at  a  morado.  But  we  had  come  to  see  and  perhaps 
buy  rugs, — those  wooly,  soft  blankets  at  which  the  heart 
of  the  collector  leaps.  During  the  day,  however,  the 
Santa  Cruz,  which  divides  Mexican  from  Indian  Chi- 
mayo,  had  risen  from  the  melting  of  snows  in  the  moun- 
tains, and  we  could  only  feast  our  eyes  on  the  lovely  hill- 
lined  valley,  with  its  greens  and  mauves,  its  cobalt  hills 
and  blossoming  apricots.  There  was  positively  no  way 
to  cross.  I  remembered  that  Bill  said  he  too  had  been 
delayed  at  Pojoaque  by  swollen  streams.  But  the  idea 
of  hurrying  home  did  not  occur  to  us,  as  it  might  have 
to  a  native.  We  communicated  our  interest  in  rugs  to 
little  Indian  boys  and  handsome  swart  Mexicans,  who 
stripped  the  floors  and  beds  of  their  great-grandparents, 


SAYING  GOOD-BY  TO  BILL  195 

learning  that  we  sought  antiques.  We  soon  had  a  choice 
of  the  greasiest  and  most  tattered  rugs  the  town  afforded, 
but  nothing  worth  purchasing.  We  were  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  river,  and  out  of  luck.  Relinquishing  the  idea 
of  seeing  rug-weaving  in  process,  we  at  last  turned  home- 
ward, with  a  new  moon  menacing  us  over  our  left 
shoulder. 

Passing  through  a  beautiful  little  canyon,  over  a  road 
which  tossed  us  like  a  catboat  in  a  nor'easter,  we  again 
came,  at  dusk,  to  sleeping  Nambe,  and  the  brink  of  the 
stream.  Toby,  who  was  driving,  plunged  boldly  m,  with- 
out preliminary  reconnoitre.  We  afterward  agreed  that 
here  she  made  a  tactical  error.  The  trickle  of  the  morn- 
ing, had  risen  to  our  hubs.  To  make  matters  worse,  the 
stream  ran  one  way,  and  the  ford  another.  We  all  hurled 
directions  at  the  unhappy  Toby. 

"Keep  down  stream!" 

"Follow  the  ford!" 

"Back  up !" 

"Go  ahead, — go  ahead!" 

Toby  hesitated.  Now  in  crossing  a  swift  stream,  to 
hesitate  is  to  lose.  The  car  struck  the  current  mid-stream, 
the  water  dashed  up  and  killed  the  engine,  and  the  "old 
lady"  became  a  Baptist  in  regular  standing.  Toby  saw 
she  was  in  for  it,  I  could  tell  by  the  guilty  look  of  the 
back  of  her  neck.  She  tried  frantically  to  reverse,  but  no 
response  came  from  the  submerged  engine. 

"Toby,"  I  cried  in  anguish,  "start  her,  quick!"  And 
then  I  regret  to  say  I  lapsed  into  profanity,  exclaiming, 
"Oh,  devil,  devil,  darn!" 

In  a  moment,  everyone  was  standing  on  the  seats,  and 
climbing  thence  to  the  mudguard.  Our  cameras,  coats, 


196 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


pocketbooks,  and  the  remains  of  some  lettuce  sandwiches 
floated  or  sank  according  to  their  specific  gravity.  I 
plunged  my  arm  down  to  the  elbow,  and  brought  up 
two  ruined  cameras,  and  a  purse  which  a  week  later  was 
still  wet.  Meanwhile  the  others  had  climbed  from  the 
mudguard  to  the  radiator,  fortunately  half  out  of  water, 
and  thence  jumped  ashore.  Before  I  could  follow  suit, 
the  water  had  risen  to  the  back  seat,  and  I  scrambled 
ashore  soaked  to  the  knees.  We  were  on  the  wrong  side 
of  the  stream  from  Nambe,  and  the  river  was  too  deep 
for  wading.  Finally  the  man  of  the  party  risked  his 
life,  or  at  least  the  high  boots  which  were  the  joy  of 
his  life,  and  reached  the  opposite  shore,  where  lay  the 
pueblo.  After  a  long  interval  he  returned  with  two  In- 
dians who  led  a  team  of  horses  across. 

Trained  as  I  have  said  poor  Lo,  or  Pueb-Lo,  to  make 
a  bad  pun,  is  in  matters  of  the  spirit,  in  mechanics  he  has 
not  the  sense  of  a  backward  child  of  three  years.  These 
two  attached  a  weak  rope  to  the  car,  where  it  would  have 
the  least  pulling  power  and  the  greatest  strain,  drove 
the  horses  off  at  a  wrong  angle, — and  broke  the  rope. 
For  two  hours,  with  greatest  good  nature  and  patience, 
they  alternately  attached  chains  and  broke  them  until  we 
had  exhausted  the  hardware  of  the  entire  town.  It 
was  now  long  after  midnight.  Having  reached  the 
point  where  we  hoped  the  car  would  sink  entirely  and 
save  us  further  effort,  we  accepted  the  Indian's  offer  of 
two  beds  for  the  ladies  and  a  shakedown  for  the  man, 
and  went  weary  and  supperless  to  bed.  Toby  and  I 
were  used  to  going  supperless  to  bed,  but  it  was  hard 
on  our  two  friends  to  whom  we  had  meant  to  give  a 
pleasant  day. 


SAYING  GOOD-BY  TO  BILL  197 

As  we  entered  the  bedroom  into  which  the  Indian 
proudly  ushered  us,  I  exclaimed  "Toby!"  The  room 
contained  two  large  beds,  a  piano  between  them,  some 
fearful  crayon  portraits  of  Nambe's  older  settlers,  and  a 
scarlet  Navajo  rug.  Nothing  remarkable  about  the 
room,  except  that  the  piano  and  the  two  lace-covered  beds 
denoted  we  were  being  entertained  by  pueblo  aristoc- 
racy. But  on  that  morning,  being  one  of  those  people 
who  do  not  start  the  day  right  until  they  have  unloaded 
their  dreams  on  some  victim,  I  had  compelled  Toby  to 
listen  to  the  dream  which  had  held  me  prisoner  the  pre- 
vious night.  In  it,  we  had  started  off  into  the  desert 
with  the  "old  lady,"  and  traveled  until  we  found  our- 
selves in  a  sea  of  sand.  Then,  for  some  reason  not 
clear  when  I  woke,  we  abandoned  the  car,  and  set  out 
afoot  over  wastes  of  sand,  in  which  we  sank  to  our 
ankles.  All  day  we  walked,  and  at  night  exhausted,  found 
shelter  in  a  crude  building.  Presently,  the  men  in  our 
party  returned  to  say  they  had  found  beds  for  the  women, 
but  must  themselves  sleep  on  the  ground.  Then  they  led 
us  into  a  room.  And  in  this  room  were  two  beds,  a 
piano,  some  crayon  portraits  with  gimcrack  ornaments 
on  the  wall,  and  on  the  floor  a  brilliant  crimson  rug.  The 
arrangement  of  the  furniture  in  the  real  and  the  dream 
world  was  identical.  In  my  dream  I  also  had  a  vivid 
consciousness  of  going  to  a  strange  and  uncomfortable 
bed,  tired  and  hungry.  Now  a  psychoanalyst  once  told 
me  that  science  does  not  admit  the  prophetic  dream  as 
orthodox.  Yet  our  little  excursion,  ending  so  disas- 
trously, had  not  been  planned  till  after  I  told  my  dream 
to  Toby.  My  own  firm  belief  is  that  our  guardian  angels 
were  violating  the  Guardian  Angels'  Labor  Union  Laws, 


198  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

working  overtime  to  send  us  a  warning.  Would  we  had 
taken  it ! 

This  night,  however,  our  dreams  were  broken.  Indians 
are  the  most  hospitable  people  in  the  world,  especially 
the  Pueblos,  long  trained  to  gracious  Spanish  customs. 
These  simple  hosts  of  ours  had  made  us  free  of  all 
they  possessed.  We  could  not  properly  blame  them  if 
their  possessions  made  free  with  us.  Their  hospitality 
was  all  right;  just  what  one  would  expect  from  the  In- 
dian,— grave  and  dignified.  But  their  Committee  of 
Reception  was  a  shade  too  effusive.  They  came  more 
than  half-way  to  meet  us.  Perhaps  in  retribution  for  her 
imprudent  dash  into  the  river,  its  members  confined  most 
of  their  welcome  to  Toby,  with  whom  I  shared  one  bed. 
She  woke  me  up  out  of  a  sound  sleep  to  ask  me  to  feel  a 
lump  over  her  left  eye. 

"I  would  rather  not,"  I  said,  feeling  rather  cold  toward 
Toby  just  then.  "I  prefer  not  to  call  attention  to  my- 
self. Would  you  mind  moving  a  little  further  away?" 

"I  must  say  you're  sympathetic,"  sniffed  Toby. 

"If  you  had  looked  before  you  leaped,  you  wouldn't  be 
needing  my  sympathy." 

It  was  our  first  tiff.  A  moment  later  she  jumped  up  as 
if  in  anguish  of  spirit. 

"I  can't  stand  this  any  longer,"  she  said,  referring  not 
to  our  quarrel,  but  to  a  more  tangible  affliction,  which  we 
afterward  named  Nambitis, — with  the  accent  on  the 
penult, — "I'm  going  to  sleep  on  the  floor." 

"Perhaps  it  would  be  as  well,"  I  answered. 

Toby  made  herself  a  nice  bed  on  the  adobe  floor  with 
old  coats  and  rugs,  and  we  went  to  rest, — at  least  ninety* 
five  out  of  a  possible  hundred  of  us  did.  For  some  rea- 


SAYING  GOOD-BY  TO  BILL  199 

son  we  sprang  gladly  out  of  bed  next  morning,  to  find 
that  our  hosts  had  taken  the  trouble  to  prepare  us  a 
liberal  breakfast.  The  lump  over  Toby's  left  eye  had 
spread,  giving  her  a  leering  expression,  but  otherwise 
she  was  again  her  cheerful  self.  The  rest  of  the  party 
suggested  it  was  hardly  tactful  for  her  to  show  herself 
wearing  such  an  obvious  reproach  to  our  hosts  on  her 
countenance,  and  advised  her  to  forego  breakfast.  Toby 
rebelled.  She  replied  that  she  had  only  eaten  two  sand- 
wiches since  the  previous  morning,  and  was  faint  from 
loss  of  blood,  and  was  going  to  have  her  breakfast, 
lump  or  no  lump.  Toby  is  like  Phil  May's  little  boy, — 
she  "do  make  a  Gawd  out  of  her  stummick."  I  on  the 
contrary  can  go  two  or  three  days  without  regular  food, 
with  no  effect  except  on  my  temper.  So  we  all  sat  down  to 
a  breakfast  neatly  served  on  flowered  china,  of  food 
which  looked  like  white  man's  food,  but  was  so  highly 
over-sugared  and  under-salted  that  we  had  difficulty  in 
eating  it. 

Our  host  informed  us  the  river  had  been  steadily  ris- 
ing all  night.  He  doubted  whether  we  should  see  any 
signs  of  our  car.  His  doubts  confirmed  a  dream  which 
had  troubled  me  all  night,  wherein  I  had  waked,  gone 
to  the  river,  and  found  the  old  lady  completely  covered  by 
the  turgid  flood.  I  dreaded  to  investigate,  for  when  one 
dreams  true,  dreams  are  no  light  matter.  Somewhat 
fortified  by  breakfast,  we  went  to  view  the  wreck.  With 
mingled  relief  and  despair,  we  found  my  dream  only 
about  80  per  cent  true.  The  radiator,  nearest  to  shore, 
lay  half  exposed.  The  car  sagged  drunkenly  on  one  side. 
The  tonneau  was  completely  under  water,  but  we  could 
still  see  the  upper  half  of  the  back  windows. 


200 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


While  others  rode  eight  miles  to  telephone,  we  stood 
on  the  bank,  breathlessly  watching  to  see  whether  the 
water  line  on  those  windows  rose  or  fell.  The  Indians 
told  us  the  river  would  surely  rise  a  little,  as  the  snow  be- 
gan to  melt.  But  Noah,  looking  down  upon  fellow  suf- 
ferers, must  have  interceded  for  us.  Inch  by  inch,  the 
windows  came  into  full  view.  The  worst  would  not 
happen.  A  chance  remained  that  Bill  could  rescue  us 
before  the  river  rose  again.  Bill  was  our  rainbow,  our 
dove  of  promise,  our  Ararat. 

An  hour  later,  he  rattled  up  to  the  opposite  bank, 
threw  us  a  sympathetic  grin,  and  got  to  work.  It  was 
a  pleasure  to  watch  Bill  work.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  watch 
anyone  work  provided  one  has  no  share  in  it  oneself, 
but  some  people  weary  one  by  puttering.  I  could  watch 
Bill  on  the  hardest  kind  of  job,  and  feel  fresh  and  fairly 
rested  when  he  finished.  He  always  knew  beforehand 
what  he  intended  to  do,  and  did  it  deliberately  and  easily. 
He  first  drove  two  stakes  into  the  ground,  some  distance 
apart,  attached  a  double  pulley  to  them,  and  to  the  front 
bar  of  the  car,  the  only  part  not  under  water,  and  he  and 
his  assistants  pulled  gradually  and  patiently  till  from 
across  the  river  we  could  see  the  sweat  stand  out  on  their 
brows.  In  ten  minutes,  we  were  astonished  to  see  the 
half  drowned  giant  move  -slightly.  Hope  rose  as  the 
river  fell.  Bill  took  another  reef  in  his  trousers  and 
the  pulley,  then  another  and  another,  and  at  last  the  old 
lady  groaned,  left  her  watery  bed,  shook  herself,  and 
clambered  up  on  dry  land. 

We  crossed  on  horseback  to  the  other  side  and  waited 
with  a  sick  internal  feeling,  while  Bill  removed  the  wheels 
and  examined  the  damage. 


THE  CAR  SAGGED  DRUNKENLY  ON  ONE  SIDE. 


FORDING  A  RIVER  NEAR  SANTA  FE. 

Crossing  fords,  to  our  hubs,  which  yesterday  were  mere  trickles  and  to-morrow  would 
be  raging  torrents. 


ON  THE  WAY  TO  GALLUP. 

Jack  and  all  sank  in  the  soft  quicksand  beneath  the  weight  of  the  car. 


SAYING  GOOD-BY  TO  BILL  201 

"Everything  seems  all  right, — no  harm  done/'  re- 
marked Toby,  with  hasty  cheerfulness,  emerging  from 
the  taciturnity  resulting  from  one  closed  eye  and  a  general 
atmospheric  depression  among  the  rest  of  us.  Her  re- 
mark showed  that  she  now  expected  to  assume  her  usual 
place  in  society. 

"If  anything,"  I  answered  bitterly,  "the  car  is  im- 
proved by  its  bath." 

The  poor  old  wreck  stood  sagging  heavily  on  one 
spring,  two  wheels  off,  the  cushions  water-logged,  and 
a  foot  of  mud  and  sand  on  the  tonneau  floor  and  encrust- 
ing the  gears.  Maps,  tools,  wraps,  chains,  tires  and  the 
sickly  remains  of  our  lunch  made  a  sodden  salad,  liber- 
ally mixed  with  Rio  Grande  silt.  Sticks  and  floating 
refuse  had  caught  in  the  hubs  and  springs,  and  refused  to 
be  dislodged.  A  junk  man  would  have  offered  us  a  pair 
of  broken  scissors  and  a  1908  alarm  clock  for  her  as 
she  stood,  and  demanded  cash  and  express  prepaid.  I 
think  Toby  gathered  that  my  intent  was  sarcasm,  for  she 
relapsed  into  comparative  silence,  while  in  deep  gloom 
we  watched  Bill  scoop  grit  out  of  the  gears.  I  braced 
myself  to  ask  a  question. 

"Can  you  save  her,  Bill?" 

"Well,"  Bill  cast  a  keen  blue  eye  at  the  remains,  "the 
battery's  probably  ruined,  and  the  springs  will  have  to 
be  taken  apart  and  the  rust  emoried  off,  and  the  mud 
cleaned  out  of  the  carburetor  and  engine,  and  the  springs 
rehung,  and  if  any  sand  has  got  into  the  bearin's  you'll 
never  be  through  with  the  damage,  and  the  cushions  are 
probably  done  for, — life's  soaked  out  of  them." 

As  Bill  spoke,  the  Rainbow  Bridge,  for  which  we  had 
planned  to  start  in  a  few  days,  became  a  rainbow  indeed, 


202  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

but  not  of  hope.  The  Grand  Canyon,  the  Hopi  villages, 
Havasupai  Canyon,  Yellowstone,  Glacier  Park!  Their 
red  cliffs  and  purple  distances  shimmered  before  our  eyes 
as  dear,  lost  visions,  and  faded,  to  be  replaced  by  a  heap 
of  junk  scattered  in  a  lone  arroyo,  and  two  desolate 
female  figures  standing  on  the  Albuquerque  platform, 
waiting  for  the  through  train  east. 

"Well,  Bill,  will  you  make  us  an  offer  for  her  as  she 
stands?" 

Bill  squinted  at  her,  and  shook  his  head,  "Don't  think 
I'd  better,  ma'am." 

The  day  shone  brilliant  blue  and  gold,  and  the  valley 
of  cottonwood  sparkled  like  emeralds,  but  all  seemed 
black  to  us.  Toby  looked  almost  as  guilty  as  she  de- 
served to  look,  and  that,  though  unusual  and  satisfac- 
tory, was  but  a  minor  consolation. 

"Too  bad,"  said  Bill,  sympathetically,  "that  you  didn't 
sound  the  river  before  you  tried  to  cross." 

"It  was  indeed,"  I  said,  without  looking  at  anyone. 

"I  didn't  hear  you  suggest  stopping,"  said  Toby.  One 
would  have  thought  she  would  be  too  crushed  to  reply 
after  Bill's  remark,  but  you  never  can  tell  about  Toby. 

We  watched  Bill  methodically  and  quickly  replace  the 
wheels,  shovel  out  the  sand  and  mud,  put  the  tools  in 
place,  wipe  the  cushions,  and  put  his  foot  on  the  starter, 
the  last  as  perfunctorily  as  a  doctor  holds  a  mirror  to 
the  nostrils  of  a  particularly  dead  corpse.  Instantly,  the 
wonderful  old  lady  broke  into  a  quiet,  steady  purr !  A 
cheer  rose  from  the  watchers  on  the  river  bank,  in  which 
ten  little  Indian  boys  joined,  and  Toby  and  I  embraced 
and  forgave  each  other. 

We  did  not  say  good-by  to  Bill.    We  had  a  rendezvous 


SAYING  GOOD-BY  TO  BILL  203 

with  Bill  at  the  garage  for  the  following  morning.  Fear- 
ful lest  the  engine  stop  her  welcome  throb,  we  jumped 
into  the  car,  and  drove  the  sixteen  miles  home,  up  steep 
hills  and  down,  under  our  own  power.  Fate  had  one  last 
vicious  jab  in  store  for  us.  Five  minutes  after  starting,  a 
thunder  cloud  burst,  and  rained  on  us  till  we  turned  into 
our  driveway,  when  it  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  started. 

What  was  left  of  the  car,  I  backed  out  of  the  garage 
next  morning.  Toby  stood  on  the  running  board,  and 
directed  me  how  to  avoid  a  low  hanging  apricot  tree, 
her  eye  and  her  spirits  as  cocky  as  ever. 

"All  clear!"  she  called.  I  backed,  and  crashed  into 
the  tree.  A  splintering,  sickening  noise  followed.  The 
top  of  the  car,  the  only  part  which  had  previously  escaped 
injury,  showed  beautiful  jagged  rents  and  the  broken 
end  of  a  rod  bursting  through  the  cloth. 

For  three  days,  Toby  discoursed  on  photography,  sun- 
sets, burros,  geology  and  Pima  baskets,  but  nobody  could 
have  guessed  from  anything  she  said  that  automobiles 
had  yet  been  invented.  At  last  she  gave  me  a  chance. 

"In  driving  over  a  desert  road  with  sharp  turns,"  she 
said  confidently,  "the  thing  is  to " 

"Toby!"  It  was  too  good  an  opening.  "As  a  chauf- 
feur, you  make  a  perfect  gondolier." 

Bill  presented  us  at  the  end  of  a  week  with  a  sad- 
der but  wiser  car,  a  little  wheezy  and  water-logged,  but 
still  game.  When  we  steered  it  out  of  the  garage  which 
had  become  our  second  home  in  Santa  F6,  we  did  not  say 
good-by  to  Bill.  We  couldn't  afford  to.  On  reaching 
Albuquerque  safely,  we  sent  him  a  postcard. 

"Dear  Bill: — The  car  went  beautifully.  We  wish  we 
could  take  you  with  us !" 


CHAPTER  XV 

LACUNA  AND  ACOMA 

IN  spite  of  Toby's  making  the  slight  error  of  driving 
fourteen  miles  with  the  emergency  brake  on,  we 
seemed  to  have  placed  misadventure  behind  us  for  a  brief 
season  at  least.  We  coasted  the  twenty-three  switch  backs 
of  La  Bajada  hill,  now  an  old  story,  and  returned  for 
the  night  to  the  Harvey  hotel  at  Albuquerque,  where  the 
transcontinental  traveler  gets  his  first  notion  of  Western 
heat,  and  wonders  if  he  is  in  any  danger  from  the  abo- 
rigines selling  pottery  on  the  railroad  platforms,  and  spec- 
ulates as  to  whether  the  legs  of  the  squaws  can  possibly 
fill  the  thick  buckskin  leggins  they  parade  in  so  noncha- 
lantly. If  it  is  his  first  visit  West,  he  little  realizes  how 
Harveyized  these  picturesque  creatures  have  become,  and 
he  snatches  eagerly  at  what  he  thinks  may  be  his  last 
chance  to  pick  up  some  curios.  The  pottery,  from  the  vil- 
lage of  Acoma,  is  genuine,  though  of  a  tourist  quality. 
The  white  doeskin  legs  are  also  genuine,  although  many 
pueblo  women  have  ceased  to  wear  them  except  to  meet 
the  twelve  o'clock.  They  always  inspire  in  me  an  awed 
respect,  worn  under  the  burning  sun  with  such  sang  froid. 
The  explanation  for  this  indifference  to  discomfort  lies  in 
the  fact  that  a  lady's  social  prominence  is  gaged  by  the 
number  of  doeskin  wrappers  she  displays,  as  the  Breton 
peasant  is  measured  by  her  heavy  petticoats,  and  a  Maori 
belle  by  her  tattooing:  il  faut  souffrir  pour  etre  belle. 

204 


LACUNA  AND  ACOMA  205 

The  Indians  furnished  the  most  entertaining  spectacle 
of  modern,  prosperous  Albuquerque,  whose  solid  virtues 
intrigue  the  hobo  but  little.  We  took  advantage  of  her 
porcelain  bathtubs,  and  then  hastened  on  into  a  more 
primitive  region,  which  became  wilder  and  wilder  as  we 
neared  the  Arizona  boundaries.  Only  two  little  adven- 
tures befell;  neither  had  a  proper  climax.  A  two  day  old 
lamb,  wobbly  and  frightened,  had  lost  its  mother,  and 
wandered  bleating  pitifully  from  one  sheep  to  another, 
who  treated  it  with  cold  disdain.  It  finally  approached 
our  car  as  if  it  had  at  last  reached  its  goal;  but  asking 
for  nourishment,  it  received  gasoline,  and  seeking  woolly 
shelter,  it  was  startled  by  metal  walls.  Piteously  weak 
and  terrified,  the  thumping  of  its  heart  visibly  stirring  its 
coat,  it  fled  away  in  distress,  with  us  at  its  frail  little  heels. 
Yet  run  our  fastest,  we  could  not  catch  it,  though  we 
tried  every  subterfuge.  We  baa-ed  as  if  we  were  its 
mother,  and  it  approached  cautiously,  to  scamper  off 
when  our  hands  shot  out  to  catch  it.  Poor  little  fool !  It 
had  not  the  courage  to  trust  us,  though  it  longed  to,  and 
after  a  hot  and  weary  hour,  we  had  to  leave  it  to  starve. 
As  we  started  off,  another  car  shot  past  us,  challengingly, 
its  very  tail  light  twinkling  insolence.  A  dark  and  hand- 
some face  leered  back  at  us,  with  a  full-lipped,  sinister 
smile.  At  the  next  settlement,  where  we  stopped  to  buy 
food,  this  half-breed  Mephisto  was  there  lounging  against 
the  counter,  and  looking  at  us  with  the  look  that  is 
like  a  nudge.  When  we  left,  he  swaggered  after,  and 
kept  his  car  for  some  miles  close  behind  ours.  The  coun- 
try was  so  wild  that  we  saw  a  coyote  sneaking  through  the 
sage,  and  not  long  after,  a  wildcat  disappeared  into  a 
clump  of  pifion.  Beyond  the  orange  cliffs  we  saw  in  the 


206 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


distance,  we  could  expect  no  human  assistance,  and  it 
was  uncomfortably  near  nightfall.  Then,  to  our  relief, 
the  road  branched,  one  fork  leading  to  a  silver  mine. 
Our  Mexican  shot  into  it,  giving  us  a  parting  grimace. 
Slight  enough,  this  was  our  first  and  last  encounter  with 
that  particular  sort  of  danger. 

At  sunset  we  came  to  Laguna,  ancient  and  gray  as  the 
rocks  on  which  it  sprawled,  its  church  tower  picked  out 
against  a  golden  sky.  This  is  the  first  Kersian  pueblo 
met  going  from  east  to  west.  Ancient  as  it  seems,  it  is 
the  offspring  of  the  parent  pueblo  of  Acoma,  which  itself 
descended  from  an  older  town  situated  on  the  Enchanted 
Mesa.  "Laguna"  seems  a  sad  misnomer  for  this  waste 
of  sand  and  rock.  But  years  ago,  what  is  now  desert  was 
a  country  made  fertile  by  a  great  lake.  When  a  dissen- 
sion arose  in  old  Acoma,  as  frequently  happened  among 
these  "peaceful"  Indians,  the  dissatisfied  members  of  the 
tribe  left  Acoma,  and  settled  near  the  lake.  Here  they 
stayed  from  habit  long  after  the  lake  had  dried  and  its 
green  shores  became  barren  sand-heaps,  until  the  new 
town  became  as  weather-beaten  as  its  parent.  This  is 
why,  unlike  most  pueblos,  Laguna  and  Acoma  share  the 
same  dialect. 

Laguna,  built  on  a  solid  ledge  of  mother  rock,  attracts 
attention  by  the  notched  beauty  of  its  skyline.  It  is 
entertainingly  terraced  on  irregular  streets,  forced  to 
conform  to  the  shape  of  its  rock  foundation.  A  ramble 
about  town  brings  unexpected  vistas.  You  start  on  what 
seems  to  be  the  street,  trail  along  after  a  shock  haired 
little  savage  in  unbuttoned  frock,  and  suddenly  find  your- 
self in  a  barnyard,  gazing  with  a  flea  bitten  burro  upon 
the  intimacies  of  Pueblo  family  life  on  the  roof  of  the 


PUEBLO  WOMEN  GRINDING  CORN  IN  METATE  BINS. 
The  women  are  the  millers  who  grind  the  varied  colored  corn  in  lava  bins. 


PUEBLO  WOMAN  WRAPPING  DEER-SKIN  LEGGINS. 
A  lady's  social  prominence  is  gauged  by  the  thickness  of  doeskin  wrappers  she  displays. 


LACUNA  AND  ACOMA  207 

house  next  door.  Through  the  village  come  sounds  of 
the  leisurely  tasks  of  the  evening.  The  mellow,  throaty 
boom  of  the  tombe,  and  syncopated  rhythm  of  the 
corn-grinding  song  come  from  the  open  doors,  framed  in 
the  warm  glow  of  firelight.  A  dead  coyote,  waiting  to 
be  dressed,  hangs  by  the  tail  from  a  vega.  Children  play 
in  the  streets.  The  shifting  hills  of  shimmering  sand, 
moonlight  silver  in  the  frosted  air  of  morning,  and 
golden  at  noon,  turn  from  rose  to  violet.  Above  the  vil- 
lage rise  pencilled  lines  of  smoke  from  ancient  fireplaces. 
Towering  above  everything  stands  the  white  mass  of  the 
old  mission,  with  a  gleaming  cross  of  gold  cutting  sharp- 
ly against  the  glory  of  the  west. 

Laguna  owns  no  hotel,  so  Toby  and  I  sought  out  the 
missionary,  whose  ruddy,  white-haired  countenance  and 
stalwart  frame  bespoke  his  Vermont  origin,  and  whose 
hospitality  bore  the  hearty  flavor  of  Green  Mountain 
farmhouses.  At  something  less  than  what  is  called  a  pit- 
tance, he  had  worked  for  years  among  the  Indians  of  the 
pueblo,  and  at  the  nearby  tubercular  sanitarium  for  gov- 
ernment Indians.  He  seemed  to  feel  no  superiority  over 
his  charges,  and  showed  none  of  the  complacent  cant 
and  proselyting  zeal  which  distinguishes  too  many  reser- 
vation missionaries.  He  had  retained  with  delightful 
fidelity  the  spirit  of  the  small  community  pastor  working 
on  terms  of  equality  with  his  flock, — raising  the  mort- 
gage, furnishing  the  church  parlor,  encouraging  the  Sew- 
ing Circle  exactly  as  he  would  have  done  back  in  Ver- 
mont. As  he  told  us  of  his  work  the  yellow  waste  and 
glaring  sunshine,  squat  'dobe  houses  and  alien  brown 
figures  faded,  and  we  seemed  to  see  a  white  spire  with 
gilded  weathervane,  and  cottages  with  green  blinds;  we 


208 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


smelled  lilacs  and  ginger  cookies,  and  walked  in  a  lane  of 
flaming  maples. 

"The  work  is  slow  here,"  he  said.  "One  needs  pa- 
tience. Yet  looking  back  over  the  years  results  are 
gratifying.  Gratifying.  Souls  who  walked  in  darkness 
have  been  won  to  Christ.  Only  last  night,  I  attended  the 
bedside  of  a  dear  sister, — the  oldest  person  I  believe  in 
the  state.  Her  years  number  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
six.  She  confessed  her  faith  and  will  die  in  Christ." 

"Have  you  had  many,  conversions  ?"  we  asked. 

"Well, — as  numbers  go, — not  so  many.  Perhaps  forty, 
possibly  more.  They  will  go  back  to  their  own  ways. 
Yet  they  are  a  splendid  people  to  work  with, — a  delight- 
ful people.  I  have  many  real  friends  among  them.  The 
parish  is  slowly  improving.  We  have  paid  off  the  mort- 
gage, and  are  now  putting  an  addition  on  the  church. 
The  men  have  erected  the  frame,  and  when  the  ladies  of 
the  parish  finish  planting,  they  will  put  the  plaster  on  the 
walls." 

Thus  imperceptibly  had  the  good  man  merged  New 
Mexico  with  New  England.  At  the  village  school  next 
morning  we  saw  another  phase  of  the  white  man's  stan- 
dards grafted  upon  the  red  man.  The  teacher,  a  Pueblo 
Indian  woman  and  a  graduate  of  Carlisle,  wife  of  a  white 
man  in  the  neighborhood,  in  spotless  print  dress  and 
apron  was  showing  twenty  little  Indians  the  locality  of 
Asia  Minor.  They  were  neat  and  shining  and  flatteringly 
thrilled  by  the  presence  of  visitors. 

"And  now,"  said  their  beaming  teacher,  when  we  had 
heard  their  bashful  recitations,  "you  must  hear  the  chil- 
dren sing." 

We  heard  them.     The  difficulty  would  have  been  to 


LACUNA  AND  ACOMA  209 

avoid  hearing  them.  Bursting  with  delight,  each  of  the 
twenty  opened  their  mouths  to  fullest  capacity,  and 
twenty  throats  emitted  siren  tones, — not  the  sirens  of 
the  Rhineland,  but  of  a  steel  foundry.  They  began  on 
"Come,  Little  Birdie,  Come,"  though  it  is  doubtful  if 
anything  less  courageous  than  a  bald-headed  eagle  would 
have  dared  respond  to  the  invitation.  Toby  clutched  me, 
and  I  her,  and  thus  we  kept  each  other  from  bolting  out 
of  the  door.  We  even  managed  a  frozen  smile  of  appro- 
bation as  we  listened  to  the  discordant  roar,  like  the 
voices  of  many  hucksters,  which  issued  from  their  mouths. 
A  white  child  would  have  warped  his  throat  permanently 
after  such  effort,  but  these  roly-poly  babies  finished  in 
better  condition  than  they  began. 

"I  am  going  to  let  them  sing  one  more  song,"  said  the 
teacher  when  we  rose  hastily.  "They  don't  have  visitors 
every  day." 

They  sang  "Flow  Gently,  Sweet  Afton,"  and  if  Sweet 
Afton  had  been  Niagara  it  would  have  wakened  Mary 
less  than  the  stertorous  warning  which  bellowed  from 
that  schoolroom.  Then  a  dozen  brown  hands  waved  in 
the  air,  and  a  clamor  arose  for  other  bits  of  their 
repertoire  to  be  heard.  Teacher  was  smilingly  indul- 
gent, proud  of  her  pupils  and  anxious  to  give  them  and  the 
visitors  a  good  time.  So  we  were  treated  to  Old  Black 
Joe,  and  Juanita,  and  other  sad  ditties,  which  never 
seemed  sadder  than  now. 

"And  now  you  must  show  these  ladies  you  are  all  good 
Americans,"  said  the  teacher.  We  all  stood  and  sang 
the  Star  Spangled  Banner.  The  children  showed  indi- 
viduality; they  did  not  keep  slavishly  to  one  key.  Each 
child  started  on  the  one  that  suited  him  best,  and  held  it 


210  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

regardless  of  the  others.  By  the  time  they  were  well 
started,  every  note  in  the  scale  was  represented,  includ- 
ing most  of  the  half  notes.  Our  patriotism  ended  in  a 
dismal  polychromatic  howl,  and  the  sudden  silence  which 
followed  nearly  deafened  us.  We  had  forgotten  there 
was  such  a  thing  as  silence. 

What  a  pity  the  government  does  not  encourage  the 
Indian  to  cultivate  his  own  arts,  instead  of  these  alien  and 
uncomprehended  arts  of  the  white  man!  In  his  cere- 
monial dances,  he  is  lithe,  graceful,  and  expressive ;  when 
he  tries  the  one-step  and  waltz  he  is  clumsy  and  ludi- 
crous. His  voice,  strident,  discordant  and  badly-placed 
when  he  attempts  second-rate  "civilized"  music,  booms 
out  mellow  and  full-throated,  perfectly  placed  in  the 
nasal  cavity,  when  he  sings  Indian  melodies  whose  tan- 
talizing syncopations,  difficult  modulations,  and  finely 
balanced  tempo  he  manages  with  precision.  His  music  fits 
his  surroundings.  To  hear  it  chanted  in  a  wide  and  lonely 
desert  scene,  to  watch  its  savage,  untamed  vigor  move 
feet  and  bodies  to  a  climax  of  ecstatic  emotion,  until  it 
breaks  all  bounds  and  produces  the  passion  it  is  supposed 
to  symbolize  is  to  understand  what  music  meant  to  the 
world,  before  it  was  tamed  and  harnessed  and  had  its 
teeth  extracted.  To  wean  the  Indian  of  this  means  of 
self-expression,  and  nurse  him  on  puerile,  anaemic  melo- 
dies,— it  is  stupid  beyond  words,  and  unfortunately,  it  is 
of  a  piece  with  the  follies  and  stupidities  our  government 
usually  exhibits  in  its  dealings  with  its  hapless  wards.  If 
I  seemed  to  laugh  it  was  not  at  those  enthusiastic  brown 
babies,  rejoicing  in  their  ability  to  produce  civilized  dis- 
cords, but  at  the  pernicious  system  which  teaches  them 
to  be  ignorant  in  two  languages. 


LACUNA  AND  ACOMA  211 

We  finally  left  the  strains  of  patriotism  behind  us,  as 
we  drove  across  the  level  plain  to  Acoma.  Two  tracks 
in  a  waste  of  sand  made  the  road  to  the  Sky  City.  A  day 
sooner,  or  a  day  later,  the  wind  would  shift  the  fine 
grained  beach  sand,  left  there  by  some  long  vanished 
ocean,  and  block  the  road  with  drifted  heaps;  today,  by 
the  aid  of  our  guide  Solomon's  shovel,  we  were  just  able 
to  plough  through  it. 

Dotting  the  lonely  landscape,  flocks  of  white  sheep 
and  shaggy  goats  were  tended  by  Indian  boys  with  bows 
and  arrows.  They  fitted  the  pastoral  scene ;  for  a  thou- 
sand years,  perhaps,  the  ancestors  of  these  same  flocks 
were  watched  over  by  the  ancestors  of  these  boys  in  blue 
overalls.  Suddenly  to  our  left,  rising  from  the  flat  plain, 
we  saw  blocked  against  the  sky  a  shimmering  tower  of 
soft  blue  and  gold,  seeming  too  evanescent  for  solid  rock. 
Its  sheer  walls  thrust  upward  like  the  shattered  plinth 
of  a  giant's  castle  from  a  base  of  crumbling  tufa,  in  it- 
self a  small  mountain.  It  was  the  mesa  of  Old  Acoma, 
called  by  the  Indians  the  Enchanted  Mesa. 

I  believe  that  two  Harvard  students  of  archaeology 
once  reached  the  summit  of  this  perpendicular  rock,  by 
means  of  a  rope  ladder  shot  to  the  top.  But  no  white 
man  by  himself  has  for  centuries  gained  a  foothold  on  its 
splintered  walls.  Yet  once,  from  legend  borne  out  by  bits 
of  broken  pottery  and  household  utensils  found  at  the 
base  of  the  mesa,  a  large  and  flourishing  Indian  village 
lived  on  its  summit  in  safety  from  marauders.  A  stair- 
way of  rock,  half  splintered  away  from  the  main  rock 
was  the  only  means  of  access  to  the  village.  A  similar 
stairway  may  be  seen  today  in  the  Second  Mesa  of  the 
Hopi  villages. 


212 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


Up  these  stairs,  old  women  toiled  with  filled  ollas  on 
their  heads,  and  little  boys  and  men  clambered  down 
them  to  work  in  the  fields  below.  It  is  their  ghosts  the 
Indians  fear  to  meet  between  sunset  and  sunrise.  For 
one  day,  while  the  men  were  absent  plowing  or  tending 
their  herds,  a  bolt  of  lightning  struck  the  stairway  and 
in  a  moment  it  lay  the  same  crumbling  heap  of  splintered 
rock  one  sees  today  at  the  base  of  the  mesa.  To  envision 
the  horrors  that  followed  imagine  a  sudden  catastrophe 
destroying  all  stairways  and  elevators  in  the  Flatiron 
building,  while  the  men  were  away  at  lunch,  and  the  ste- 
nographers left  stranded  on  the  top  floor.  The  case 
of  Old  Acoma  was  even  more  pitiful,  for  those  left  on 
the  top  were  old  men,  helpless  from  age,  women  and 
babies.  They  lived,  ghastly  fear  and  despair  alternating 
with  hope  as  long  as  their  supply  of  corn  stored  in  the 
barren  rock  held  out, — perhaps  a  month,  perhaps  longer. 
Then  one  by  one  they  died,  while  their  men  on  the  plain 
below  tried  frantically  to  reach  them,  and  at  last  gave  up 
hope.  No  wonder  that  when  the  towering  mass  which  is 
their  monument  fades  from  blue  and  gold  to  grayish  pur- 
ple, the  Indians  turn  their  ponies'  heads  far  to  one  side, 
and  make  a  loop  rather  than  be  found  in  its  neighbor- 
hood. 

Across  the  plateau  a  few  miles  from  the  Enchanted 
Mesa  stands  another  mesa,  longer  and  lower  than  the 
other,  reached  from  the  ground  by  several  paths.  Here 
the  survivors  transferred  their  shattered  lives,  built  a 
village  like  the  old  one,  and  in  time  became  the  ancestors 
of  the  present  Acomans.  While  we  drove  toward  it, 
listening  to  the  story  our  guide  told  of  that  early  tragedy 
in  his  exact  Carlisle  English,  we  nearly  added  three 


ACOMA,  NEW  MEXICO. 

Dotting  the  loaely  landscape  flocks  of  white  sheep  and  shaggy  goats  were  tended  by  Indian  boys  with 

bows  and  arrows. 


BURROS  LADEN  WITH  FIRE-WOOD,  SANTA  FE,  NEW  MEXICO. 


LACUNA  AND  ACOMA  213 

more  ghosts  to  those  already  haunting  the  plain.  Ahead 
of  us  the  road  had  caved  in  over  night,  as  roads  have  a 
way  of  doing  in  this  country,  leaving  a  yawning  canyon 
thirty  feet  deep,  toward  which  we  sped  at  twenty  miles 
an  hour.  Our  brakes  stopped  us  at  the  edge.  I  hastened 
to  back,  and  make  a  side  detour  around  the  chasm,  where 
in  time  our  tracks  would  become  the  road,  until  some 
other  freshet  should  eat  into  and  undermine  the  porous 
ground.  Roads  in  New  Mexico  are  here  today  and 
gone  tomorrow,  cut  off  in  their  flower  by  a  washout  or 
a  sandstorm,  or  simply  collapsing  because  they  weary  of 
standing  up.  A  miss  is  always  as  good  as  a  mile,  and  our 
close  escape  was  worth  singling  out  from  a  dozen  others 
only  because  of  its  dramatic  reminder  of  what  hap- 
pened in  the  dim  past  from  almost  the  same  cause,  on 
that  magnificent  rock.  Both  the  Enchanted  Mesa  and  the 
gaping  hole  behind  us  pointed  out  the  uncertainty  of  life, 
which  seemed  so  eternal  in  that  brilliant  spring  sunshine. 
Less  dominating  than  the  haunted  mesa,  New  Acoma, 
which  is,  by  the  way,  the  oldest  continuously  inhabited 
town  in  the  United  States,  reveals  its  towering  pro- 
portions only  at  closer  range.  To  view  it  best,  it 
should  be  approached  from  the  direction  of  Acomita. 
It  stands  357  feet  above  the  floor  of  the  desert.  Under 
its  buttressed  cliffs,  a  sheep  corral  and  a  few  herder's 
huts  help  to  measure  its  great  height.  In  the  lee  of  the 
rock  we  left  the  car  to  the  mercy  of  a  group  of  slightly 
hostile  women  filling  their  water  jars  at  the  scum-covered 
spring.  The  Acomans  are  not  noted  for  pretty  manners 
or  lavish  hospitality.  Probably  if  a  second  bolt  of  light- 
ning were  to  approach  Acoma,  a  committee  from  the  Gov- 
ernor would  refuse  it  admittance  unless  it  paid  a  fee  of 


214  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

five  dollars.  It  is  said  that  since  the  San  Diego  Exposi- 
tion, when  the  Acomans  acquired  an  inflated  idea  of  the 
cash  value  of  their  picturesqueness,  tourist  gold  must 
accompany  tourist  glances  at  their  persons,  their  pottery, 
their  village,  their  children,  and  even  the  steep,  hard 
trail  up  to  their  little  stronghold. 

We  thought  we  had  almost  earned  the  freedom  of  the 
town  by  our  toilsome  climb,  first  over  a  young  mountain 
of  pure  sea  sand  in  which  we  sank  ankle  deep,  and  then 
hand  over  hand  up  a  steep  ledge  of  rock,  where  ancient 
grooves  were  worn  for  fingers  and  toes  to  cling  to.  Cen- 
turies of  soft  shod  feet  had  hollowed  these  footholds,  and 
centuries  of  women  and  men  had  carried  food  and  water 
and  building  materials  over  this  wearisome  trail.  Yet  the 
Acoman  may  be  right  in  demanding  toll.  He  has  gone  to 
infinite  trouble  through  generations  of  hard  labor  to  per- 
fect the  little  stronghold  where  he  preserves  his  precious 
individuality.  The  giant  beams  in  his  old  church,  the 
mud  bricks  and  stone  slabs  for  his  houses,  the  last  dressed 
sheep  and  load  of  groceries,  the  very  dirt  that  covers  his 
dead  were  brought  to  the  summit  on  the  backs  of  his 
tribe.  Acoma  to  the  native  is  not  an  insignificant 
village  of  savages,  but  by  treaty  with  the  United  States  an 
independent  nation;  proud  of  its  past,  serenely  confident 
of  its  future.  It  is  almost  as  large  as  Monte  Carlo,  or  the 
little  republic  of  Andorra;  with  the  assertive  touchiness 
which  so  often  goes  with  diminutive  size,  both  in  people 
and  nations.  Being  a  nation,  why  should  it  not  have  the 
same  right  to  say  who  shall  enter  its  gates,  and  under 
what  conditions,  as  the  United  States;  that  parvenu  re- 
public surrounding  it? 

Nevertheless  the  Acoman  is  not  popular,  even  among 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  TRAIL,  ACOMA. 
(Enchanted  Mesa  in  middle  distance.) 

Less  dominating  than  the  haunted  Mesa,  New  Acoma  reveals  its  towering  proportions 
only  on  nearer  approach. 


THE  ENCHANTED  MESA,  ACOMA,  NEW  MEXICO. 

A  shimmering  tower  of  blue  and  gold,  seeming  too  evanescent  for  solid  rock. 


LACUNA  AND  ACOMA  215 

Indians  of  other  villages.  Though  neighboring  towns, 
Laguna  and  Acoma  always  have  swords  drawn.  The 
Acoman  has  a  wide  reputation  for  being  surly  and  inhos- 
pitable, and  I  am  willing  to  admit  he  does  his  best  to  live 
up  to  that  reputation. 

Many  tourists  have  made  the  journey  across  the  desert, 
and  the  climb  to  the  mesa's  top,  only  to  be  turned  back  or 
admitted  at  exorbitant  fees.  Luck  was  with  us.  We  ar- 
rived on  a  day  when  the  governor  and  all  the  men  of  the 
village  were  at  work  in  the  fields  of  Acomita,  and  only 
the  women  and  children,  as  on  the  fateful  day  when  the 
Enchanted  Mesa  was  struck,  remained  in  the  village. 
Our  guide,  being  from  Laguna,  spoke  the  dialect  of  the 
Acomans,  and  proved  a  doughty  aid.  Hardly  had  our 
heads  shown  above  the  rocky  stairs  when  the  gray  land- 
scape was  suddenly  peopled  by  women  and  children;  the 
children  clad  in  one  gingham  garment,  or,  if  of  tender 
age,  in  nothing  save  the  proverbial  string  of  beads,  for 
even  the  smile  was  missing  from  their  faces.  Most  of 
the  women,  short-skirted,  with  brilliant  floating  scarves 
on  their  heads,  carried  babies  slung  in  knotted  shawls. 
Their  clamor  at  sight  of  Toby's  camera  required  no 
knowledge  of  Acomese  to  be  recognized  as  vituperative. 
They  seemed  as  anxious  to  be  photographed  as  a  burglar 
is  to  have  his  thumb-prints  taken.  They  were  in  fact  so 
uncomplimentary  that  we  recalled  uneasily  the  Spanish 
monk  who  visited  the  town  to  make  converts,  and  was 
hustled  down  to  the  plain  by  the  short  trail.  No  tourist 
uses  this  trail  if  he  can  help  himself.  It  leads  off  the 
walled  edge  of  the  graveyard  into  space  for  three  hun- 
dred odd  feet,  and  ends  on  the  rocks  below.  With  great 
presence  of  mind  the  monk  made  a  parachute  of  his  flow- 


216  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

ing  skirts,  and  alighted  unhurt  on  the  desert.  Wearing 
khaki  breeches,  we  closed  the  camera  regretfully. 

An  Indian's  prejudice  against  the  camera  arises  logi- 
cally from  his  theological  belief  that  nature  abhors  a 
duplicate.  With  keenest  powers  of  observation,  he  has 
noted  that  no  two  trees,  no  two  leaves,  no  animals,  even 
no  blades  of  grass  are  exactly  alike.  Hence,  when  he 
makes  a  rug,  a  basket  or  an  olla,  he  never  duplicates  it 
absolutely.  Therefore  he  fears  the  camera's  facsimile 
of  Nature.  If  he  allows  himself  to  be  photographed, 
he  believes  that  something  of  himself  passes  into  the 
black  box,  and  thereafter  his  soul  is  halved  of  its  power. 
If  he  afterward  falls  sick,  undergoes  misfortune  or  dies, 
he  attributes  it  to  this  sin  against  an  inexorable  law  of 
Nature.  It  all  sounds  childishly  crude,  yet  a  much 
respected  man  named  Plato  held  a  somewhat  similar  be- 
lief. 

The  difference  between  Plato  and  the  Pueblo  Indians 
lies  less  in  their  theology  than  in  the  ease  with  which  a 
piece  of  silver  changes  its  effectiveness.  Among  the  river 
Pueblos,  we  could  manufacture  free-thinkers  for  a  quar- 
ter apiece,  but  at  Acoma,  the  process  threatened  to  be  as 
expensive  as  a  papal  dispensation.  We  appeased  their 
gods  by  putting  away  our  camera,  but  having  satisfied  the 
Church,  we  still  had  to  deal  with  the  State.  The  boldest 
and  fattest  citizeness  of  the  Sky  City,  girt  round  with  a 
sash  of  Kelly  green,  triumphantly  produced  a  paper. 
Contrary  to  her  manifest  expectation,  it  did  not  shrivel 
us.  It  was  written  in  sprawly  Spanish  on  the  reverse  of 
a  grocer's  bill,  and  even  at  present  prices  no  grocer's  bill 
could  intimidate  us ;  we  had  seen  too  many  of  them.  Solo- 
mon deciphered  it  as  a  command  in  absentia  from  the 


LACUNA  AND  ACOMA  217 

Governor  to  pay  five  dollars  a  head  or  decamp  at  once. 

Meanwhile  the  women,  from  ten  years  up,  had  brought 
us  offerings — at  a  price — of  pottery,  in  the  making  of 
which  the  Acomans  excel  all  other  tribes.  Seeing  a 
chance  for  a  strategic  compromise,  through  our  faithful 
and  secretly  sympathetic  Solomon,  we  announced  we 
would  either  buy  their  pottery  or  pay  the  governor's  toll, 
but  we  would  not  do  both.  We  succeeded  in  maintaining 
an  aspect  of  firm  resolve,  and  after  many  minutes  of  de- 
bate, or  what  sounded  like  debate  in  any  tongue,  they 
wisely  concluded  that  what  was  theirs  was  their  own,  and 
what  was  the  governor's  was  something  else  entirely. 
We  instantly  compounded  a  crime  against  the  State,  and 
acquired  many  barbaric  and  gorgeously  designed  ollas. 

We  were  now  permitted  to  wander  freely  about  the 
village,  though  the  women  after  they  sold  their  pottery 
retired  to  their  houses  and  kept  the  doors  closed.  At 
the  head  of  the  village  near  where  the  trail  enters,  stands 
the  old  stone  church,  forbidding  and  bare  as  a  Yorkshire 
hillside,  built  of  giant  timbers  and  small  stones  wedged 
hard  together.  It  has  stood  there,  looking  off  over  the 
cliff,  since  1699.  Its  ungracious  front,  unsoftened  by 
ornament  and  eloquent  of  gruelling  labor,  fits  the  hard 
little  village.  Its  really  magnificent  proportions  tell  a 
story  of  incredible  effort;  no  wonder  it  looks  proudly 
down  on  the  desert  from  the  height  which  it  has  con- 
quered. Each  timber,  some  large  enough  to  make  a 
burden  for  fifty  men,  each  rock,  each  fastening  and  bolt, 
came  up  the  trail  we  had  taken  nearly  an  hour  to  climb, 
on  the  shoulders  of  a  little  people  hardly  more  than  five 
feet  tall.  It  is  the  only  Indian  mission  I  can  remember 
built  entirely  of  stone  slabs,  due  perhaps  to  the  difficulty 


218  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

of  carrying  up  mud  and  water  in  sufficient  quantities  for 
the  great  eight  foot  thick  walls  and  giant  towers. 

Between  the  church  facade  and  the  parapet  which  over- 
looks the  desert  is  a  crowded  graveyard,  containing  in 
deep  layers  the  bones  of  many  generations  of  Acomans. 
Even  the  soil  in  which  they  rest  was  brought  from  the 
plain  to  form  a  bed  over  the  mother  rock  of  the  mesa. 
Each  year  the  level  of  the  graveyard  comes  a  trifle 
nearer  the  top  of  the  parapet.  Bits  of  .pottery  clutter  the 
surface  of  the  graveyard,  not  accidentally,  as  we  at  first 
imagined,  but  due  to  the  Indian  custom  of  placing  choice 
ollas  at  the  head  and  feet  of  the  dead,  to  accompany  them 
on  their  long  journey.  It  is  a  bleak  God's  Acre :  not  a 
tree  shades  the  bare  surface.  The  four  winds  of  heaven 
sweep  it  mercilessly,  and  the  hot  sun  beats  down  on  it. 
Yet  a  few  feet  beyond  it  becomes  glorious,  "with  the  glory 
of  God,  whose  light  is  like  unto  a  stone  most  precious, 
even  like  a  jasper  stone,  clear  as  crystal."  For  the  desert 
below  is  not  a  waste  of  sand,  arid  and  monotonous,  but  a 
filtered  radiance  of  light  broken  into  pure  color.  Those 
who  know  only  the  beauty  of  green  fields  and  blue  waters 
cannot  vision  the  unreal  and  heavenly  splendor  we  saw 
from  the  Acoma  churchyard,  as  convincing  to  the  inner 
self  as  if  Earth,  that  old  and  dusty  thought  of  God,  dis- 
solved before  our  eyes  and  crystallized  again  into  a  song 
of  light  and  color,  as  it  was  at  the  beginning. 

Acoma,  different  as  it  was,  reminded  me  oddly  of  the 
New  England  nature.  At  its  heart  lay  a  spiritual  beauty, 
— this  intense  beauty  of  the  desert, — and  wrapped  about 
it  a  shell  of  hard,  chill  unloveliness.  The  three  little 
streets,  dribbling  off  to  the  edge  of  the  rock,  had  no  wel- 
come for  us.  Its  houses,  two  and  three  tiered,  slabbed 


A  STREET  IN  ACOMA,  NEW  MEXICO. 

A  flock  of  ducks  splashed  in  a  rainpool  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 


THE  ACOMA  MISSION,  NEW  MEXICO. 
At  the  head  of  the  village  stands  the  old  stone  church,  built  with  giant  timbers. 


LACUNA  AND  ACOMA  219 

with  flint  instead  of  the  more  pleasing  adobe,  closed  tight 
to  our  approach.  The  windows  were  mean  and  tiny, 
made  before  the  era  of  glass,  of  translucent  slabs  of  mica, 
roughly  set  in  the  walls.  The  houses,  bleak  and  black- 
ened, were  roughly  masoned  of  the  same  flint-like  stone  as 
the  church.  The  few  interiors  we  saw  were  barely  fur- 
nished; a  few  bowls  on  the  dirt  floor,  a  lava  corn  bin, — 
nothing  more.  A  flock  of  ducks  splashed  in  a  rainpool 
in  the  middle  of  the  road ;  a  mangy  mongrel  yapped  at  us, 
and  women  on  the  housetops  scolded  whenever  Toby 
ventured  to  produce  her  camera.  With  their  colored 
veils,  red  skirts  and  bright  sashes  they  gave  the  village 
its  only  animation,  as  they  brought  out  more  and  more 
bits  of  pottery  to  tempt  us,  carrying  it  carelessly  on  their 
heads  down  the  ladders  of  the  houses. 

Solomon,  the  only  man  in  sight,  took  every  opportunity 
to  efface  himself  whenever  the  bargaining  raised  a  cross- 
ruff  of  feeling.  He  even  ducked  around  a  corner  when  a 
very  stout  lady,  having  sold  us  all  her  pottery,  again 
brought  up  the  subject  of  our  paying  five  dollars  ad- 
mission. We  appeased  her  by  offering  her  a  bribe  to 
carry  our  purchases  down  to  the  car.  While  we  were 
still  halfway  down,  lifting  our  feet  laboriously  from  the 
heavy  sand,  we  saw  her,  a  tiny  round  dot,  with  the  ollas 
balanced  above  her  floating  turquoise  scarf,  stepping 
blithely  and  lightly  over  the  desert  floor. 

"What  a  pity  we  couldn't  get  any  pictures,"  I  said  to 
Toby,  as  we  raced  a  thunder-cloud  back  to  Laguna. 

"H'ml"  said  Toby.  "I  took  a  roll  of  pictures  while 
you  kept  them  busy  selling  pottery.  I  got  a  beauty  of 
the  fat  woman  who  made  such  a  fuss.  I  must  say  it  would 
be  an  improvement  if  half  of  her  passed  into  the  camera." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  GRAND  CANYON  AND  THE  HAVASUPAI  CANYON 

A  GLITTERING  day,  cool  and  sweet.  Long 
shadows  slanted  through  the  scented  Coconino 
Forest.  The  Gothic  silences  of  the  woods  were  clean  of 
underbrush  as  an  English  park.  Endless  rows  of  pines 
had  dropped  thick  mats  of  needles  on  the  perfect  road, 
so  that  our  wheels  made  no  sound.  Beside  these  pines  of 
northern  Arizona  our  greener  New  England  varieties 
seem  mere  scrubs.  Then,  unexpectedly,  we  passed  the 
forest  boundaries.  Driving  a  few  rods  along  the  open 
road,  we  had  our  first  sight  of  the  Canyon  at  Grand 
View  Point,  with  the  sun  setting  over  its  amethyst  chasm. 
Years  before,  stepping  directly  from  an  eastern  train, 
like  most  tourists  I  had  seen  the  Canyon  as  my  first 
stunned  inkling  of  the  extraordinary  scale  on  which  an 
extravagant  Creator  planned  the  West.  This  time,  Toby 
and  I  had  the  disadvantage  of  coming  newly  to  it  after 
being  sated  with  the  heaped  magnificence  of  the  Rockies. 
Would  its  vastness  shrink?  Would  it  still  take  our  breath 
away?  I  don't  know  why  people  want  their  breath  taken 
away.  In  the  end,  they  usually  put  up  a  valiant  fight  to 
keep  it,  but  at  other  times,  they  constantly  seek  new  ways 
to  have  it  snatched  from  them.  But  we  need  not  have 
worried  about  the  Grand  Canyon.  It  is  big  enough  and 
old  enough  to  take  care  of  itself.  It  could  drink  up 
Niagara  in  one  thirsty  sip,  and  swallow  Mt.  Washington 

220 


THE  GRAND  CANYON  221 

in  a  mouthful.  It  could  lose  Boston  at  one  end,  and  New 
York  at  the  other,  and  five  Singer  buildings  piled  atop 
each  other  would  not  show  above  the  rim. 

Not  that  I  mean  to  attempt  a  description  of  the  Can- 
yon. To  date,  millions  have  tried  it,  from  the  lady  who 
called  it  pretty,  to  the  gentleman  who  pronounced  it  a 
wonderful  place  to  drop  used  safety  razor  blades.  They 
all  failed.  The  best  description  of  the  Grand  Canyon 
is  in  one  sentence,  and  was  uttered  by  an  author  who  had 
never  bought  a  post-card  in  El  Tovar.  "What  is  man, 
that  Thou  art  mindful  of  him !" 

As  I  cannot  leave  blank  pages  where  the  Canyon  should 
be  given  its  due,  I  must  be  content  with  skimming  along 
its  rim,  and  dipping  here  and  there  down  among  its 
mountain  tops,  like  the  abashed  little  birds  that  plunge 
twitteringly  into  its  silences.  It  is  so  great  a  pity  that 
most  of  those  who  "see"  the  Canyon  do  not  see  it  at  all. 
They  arrive  one  morning,  and  depart  the  next.  They 
walk  a  few  rods  along  its  edge  at  El  Tovar,  visit  the 
Hopi  house,  and  hear  the  Kolb  Brothers  lecture.  If  ad- 
venturous, they  don  overalls  or  divided  skirts,  mount  a 
velvet-faced  burro  who  seems  afflicted  with  a  melancholy 
desire  to  end  his  tourist-harassed  existence  by  a  side-step 
over  Bright  Angel.  They  speak  afterward  with  bated 
breath — the  tourists,  not  the  burros — of  the  terrors  of  a 
trail  which  is  a  boulevard  compared  to  some  in  the  Can- 
yon. The  first  moment,  it  is  true,  is  trying,  when  it  drops 
away  so  steeply  that  the  burro's  ears  run  parallel  with  the 
Colorado,  but  after  several  switchbacks  they  point  hea- 
venward again,  until  Jacob's  Ladder  is  reached.  Few 
trails  in  the  West  are  so  well  graded  and  mended,  and 
walled  on  the  outside  to  prevent  accident.  Being  cen- 


222 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


trally  situated,  the  Bright  Angel  gives  an  open  vista  of  the 
length  and  breadth  of  the  Canyon  where  the  coloring  is 
most  brilliant  and  mountain  shapes  oddly  fantastic.  It  is 
an  excellent  beginning,  but  only  a  beginning  after  all. 

There  are  so  many  ways  to  "do"  the  Canyon,  that  vast 
labyrinth  that  could  not  be  "done"  in  a  thousand  years! 
The  best  way  of  all  is  to  take  a  guide  and  disappear  be- 
neath the  rim,  following  new  trails  and  old  down  to  the 
level  of  the  pyramidal  peaks,  to  the  plateau  midway  be- 
tween rim  and  river,  then  wind  in  and  out  of  the  myriad 
of  small  hilly  formations  clustering  about  these  great 
promontories  which  spread  out  from  the  mainland  like 
fingers  from  a  hand.  The  river,  a  tiny  red  line  when 
seen  from  the  top,  froths  and  tumbles  into  an  angry  tor- 
rent half  a  mile  wide.  Its  roar,  with  that  of  its  tribu- 
taries, never  is  out  of  one's  consciousness,  echoing  upon 
the  sounding  board  of  hundreds  of  narrow  chasms.  It  is 
remarkable  how  soon  the  world  fades  into  complete  obli- 
vion, and  this  rock-bound  solitude  is  the  only  existence 
which  seems  real.  I  once  spent  ten  days  on  the  plateau. 
At  the  end  of  a  week  I  had  forgotten  the  names  of  my 
most  intimate  friends,  and  on  the  ninth  day  I  spent  sev- 
eral minutes  trying  to  recall  my  own  name.  I  was  so 
insignificant  a  part  of  those  terrific  silences,  to  have  a 
name  hardly  seemed  worth  while.  One  could  forget  a 
great  sorrow  here  within  a  month.  If  I  had  to  die  within 
a  stated  time,  I  should  want  to  spend  the  interval  within 
the  red  walls  of  the  Grand  Canyon,  the  transition  to 
eternity  would  be  so  gradual. 

All  along  the  plateau  there  are  by-trails  and  half- 
trails  and  old  trails  where  immense  herds  of  wild  burros 
congregate,  and  the  bleached  bones  of  their  ancestors  lie 


THE  GRAND  CANYON  223 

thick  on  the  ground.  Not  an  hour's  ride  from  the  Bright 
Angel  Trail  is  hidden  one  of  the  prettiest  spots  on  earth. 
A  little  side  path  which  few  take  leads  from  it  around 
a  great  porphyry-colored  cliff.  Here  we  made  camp  after 
a  dry,  burning  trip,  our  horses  reeking  with  lather,  and 
gasping  with  thirst.  We  rode  along  a  little  stream 
choked  with  cotton  wood  saplings. 

"Ride  ahead,"  ordered  our  sympathetic  guide,  who  had 
a  sense  of  the  dramatic  common  to  most  of  his  profes- 
sion. He  wanted  to  give  us  the  pleasure  of  discovering 
for  ourselves.  In  a  moment  we  came  upon  it,  amazed. 
Gone  was  the  arid  Golgotha  we  had  been  struggling 
through.  The  stream  had  widened  just  where  a  rocky 
shelf  dropped  down  to  shelter  it  with  a  high  wall.  Low- 
growing  trees  and  shrubs  on  the  other  side  left  an  opening 
only  wide  enough  to  penetrate,  and  we  suddenly  entered  a 
miniature  grotto  which  seemed  more  the  work  of  a  land- 
scape artist  than  of  nature.  The  rock  and  shrubs  en- 
closed completely  a  green  pool,  wide  and  deep  enough 
to  swim  in.  The  water  was  cold  and  clear,  its  bottom 
fringed  with  thick  velvety  moss.  The  trees  met  overhead 
so  densely  that  the  sky  showed  only  in  tiny  flecks  on  an 
emerald  surface  vivified  by  the  reflection  of  sunlit 
leaves.  The  curved  rock  hiding  the  pool  on  three  sides 
was  covered  arm-deep  from  top  to  bottom  with  maiden- 
hair fern,  and  sprinkled  through  this  hanging  garden 
were  the  bright  scarlet  blossoms  of  the  Indian  paint- 
brush. As  a  crowning  delight  three  little  white  cas- 
cades trickled  through  this  greenery  into  the  pool.  A 
nymph  would  want  to  bathe  here.  We  were  not  nymphs, 
but  the  weather  was  hot,  the  guide  discreet  and  the  pool 
so  hidden  it  could  not  be  seen  ten  feet  away. 


224  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

We  camped  gratefully  over-night  here.  When  In- 
dians were  plentiful  in  the  Canyon  this  was  one  of  their 
favorite  camps.  Around  the  corner  of  the  ledge,  we  came 
upon  some  dry  caves  showing  traces  of  former  habita- 
tion. In  a  little  stone  oven  they  may  have  built  I  saw 
the  dusty  tail  of  a  rattler  flicker  and  disappear  among 
the  warm  ashes  of  our  fire.  The  refreshed  horses 
munched  all  night  on  the  luxuriant  grass,  sometimes  com- 
ing perilously  near  to  stepping  on  our  sleeping-bags. 
Toby  woke  me  at  dawn.  "Look!"  One  hundred  asses 
were  circled  about,  gazing  fascinated  at  us.  When  we 
moved  they  galloped  to  the  four  winds. 

From  Bass  Camp,  kept  by  William  Bass,  one  of  the 
pioneer  guides  of  the  Canyon,  it  is  twenty  odd  miles  by 
an  uncertain  wagon  trail  to  Hilltop,  for  which  we- started 
the  next  morning.  Very  few  of  those  thousands  who  visit 
Grand  Canyon  yearly  even  know  of  the  existence  of 
Havasupai  Canyon,  whose  starting  point  is  Hilltop. 
Fewer  visit  it.  Within  its  high,  pink  walls  is  a  narrow, 
fertile  valley,  watered  by  a  light  blue  ribbon  of  water, — 
the  Land  of  the  Sky  Blue  water,  celebrated  in  the  popu- 
lar song  by  Cadman,  the  home  of  a  little  known  and 
very  neglected  tribe  of  Indians,  the  Havasupai.  Hava- 
supai means  literally  Children  of  the  Blue  Water.  It  is  a 
fairy  vale,  with  grottoes  and  limestone  caverns,  seven 
cataracts,  three  of  them  higher  than  Niagara,  jungles  of 
cacti,  mines  of  silver  and  lead,  springs  running  now 
above,  now  beneath  the  earth's  surface,  groves  of  tropi- 
cal and  semi-tropical  fruit,  in  a  summer  climate  as  moist 
and  warm  as  the  interior  of  a  hothouse. 

We  reached  this  heaven  over  an  unimproved  trail  so 
nearly  vertical  that  had  it  been  any  steeper  our  heads 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  SKY-BLUE  WATER,  HAVASUPAI  CANYON,   ARIZONA. 


THE  GRAND  CANYON  225 

would  have  preceded  our  feet.  Sometimes  our  horses 
balked,  and  had  to  be  pulled  forward  by  the  bridle,  the 
more  nervous  becoming  panicky,  and  trying  to  turn  back. 
It  takes  a  bad  trail  to  make  a  Western  broncho  do  that. 
Frequently  we  had  to  dismount,  and  avoiding  their  hoofs, 
urge  them  to  leap  obstructing  boulders.  Except  for  the 
usual  mesquite  and  sage,  the  trail  was  barren  of  vegeta- 
tion, and  the  sun  found  us  out  and  scourged  us.  Old 
travelers  will  speak  of  Havasupai  Canyon  as  the  hottest 
resort  in  this  world,  with  even  odds  on  the  next.  We 
rejoiced  when,  an  hour  later,  we  rested  under  a  jutting 
ledge  of  cliffs  where  springs  called  Topocoba  made  a 
malodorous  pool  which  had  been  fouled  by  many  wild 
horses.  Trees  and  overhanging  rocks  gave  us  moderate 
relief  from  the  burning  sun.  We  reclined,  panting,  while 
the  horses'  packs  were  loosened  and  they  made  friends 
with  a  band  of  Indian  horses  which  roam  the  Canyon. 

This  oasis  is  one  of  the  last  links  in  the  story  of  the 
Mountain  Meadows  Massacre,  the  horror  of  the  fifties. 
Few  know  that  when  John  Lee  escaped  by  what  after- 
ward was  named  Lee's  Ferry  into  the  Grand  Canyon,  and 
thence  by  some  devious  route  then  known  only  to  himself, 
and  even  now  known  to  very  few,  to  this  refuge,  he  sub- 
sisted here  for  nearly  two  years  on  what  he  could  shoot 
and  trap  while  Federal  officers  scoured  Utah  for  him. 
He  found  a  rich  vein  of  lead  which  is  still  unworked,  and 
by  melting  ore  from  it  traded  it  to  the  Navajos  for  am- 
munition. He  finally  worked  his  way  back  to  Lee's 
Ferry,  where  he  was  recognized  and  captured.  I  was 
told  that  he  was  a  relative, — I  believe  an  uncle, — of  Gen. 
Robert  E.  Lee. 

We  looked  up,  on  reaching  the  bottom  of  the  trail,  to 


226 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


find  Hilltop  almost  directly  overhead,  or  so  it  seemed. 
The  descent  at  this  part  of  the  canyon  actually  measures 
about  2600  feet,  and  a  plumb  line  dropped  from  a  hori- 
zontal one  drawn  over  the  precipice  for  42  rods  would 
strike  the  bottom  of  the  trail.  Every  bit  of  merchan- 
dise reaching  the  little  village  of  the  Havasupai  must  be 
carried  on  mule-back  down  this  helter-skelter  mass  of 
boulders  and  winding  ledges.  Once  an  enterprising  su- 
perintendent (of  whom  the  Havasupai  have  had  all  too 
few)  tried  to  import  a  melodeon  for  the  benefit  of  the 
church  services  he  instituted  for  the  Indians.  It  reached 
the  bottom,  but  it  was  too  entangled  with  burro  bones  and 
twisted  wires  to  be  of  any  use  except  as  a  curiosity. 

To  reach  the  village,  one  follows  the  winding  river 
bed  for  several  miles  between  cliffs  of  beautifully  colored 
sandstone,  flame,  pink  or  purple  as  the  light  plays  on  it. 
Some  of  these  walls  stand  nearly  a  thousand  feet  high. 
The  river,  nearly  dry  now,  and  occasionally  disappearing 
underground,  had  been  a  torrent  in  the  spring,  as  we  saw 
from  the  black  water  marks  high  over  our  heads.  Dur- 
ing the  winter,  the  Indians  are  obliged  to  live  in  caves 
halfway  up  these  walls,  while  the  river  inundates  their  vil- 
lages, carrying  away  their  flimsy  willow  houses  on  its  tide. 
Some  Havasupai  take  to  Hilltop  for  the  winter.  Then 
when  the  river  returns  to  its  banks  in  spring  and  the 
Havasupai  climb  down  from  their  chilly  caves,  the  valley 
becomes  a  little  Paradise,  luxuriant  and  secret.  The 
little  pale  blue  stream  is  bordered  all  along  its  course  with 
beds  of  watercress  a  dozen  feet  deep,  sharpened  deli- 
ciously  by  the  lime  water  in  which  it  grows.  The  bleak 
and  thorny  mesquite  is  transformed  by  masses  of  feathery 
leaves,  and  its  heavily  pollened  yellow  catkins  fill  the  nar- 


HORSEMAN  IN  HAVASUPAI  CANYON,  ARIZONA. 

The  small  dark  spot  on  the  edge  of  the  floor  of  the  canyon  is  the  Horseman,  giving 
an  idea  of  the  scale. 


THE  GRAND  CANYON  227 

row  valley  with  a  scent  like  lilies  and  willow  sap.  The 
willows  native  to  this  region  wear  slenderer  leaves  than 
our  home  trees,  and  are  festooned  with  fragrant  laven- 
der flowers,  shaped  like  doll  orchids.  Never  have  I  seen 
such  lavishness  of  cactus  in  bloom.  The  prickly  pear 
creeps  with  its  giant  claws  across  the  sand,  its  red  blos- 
soms giving  place  to  rows  of  unsightly  purple  bulbs,  which 
later  in  the  year  make  good  eating. 

We  gathered  armfuls  of  the  watercress,  our  first  bit  of 
green  food  in  weeks,  for  the  West  lives  mainly  by  virtue 
of  the  can-opener,  and  has  yet  to  discover  the  value  of 
vitamines.  Our  horses  splashed  to  their  knees  in  the 
cooling  stream.  From  time  to  time  a  sharp  turn  in  the 
canyon  displayed  long  vistas  from  lateral  canyons,  end- 
ing in  far-off  mountains  which  may  have  been  part  of 
the  Father  of  all  Canyons.  Frequently  the  river  dropped 
underground,  as  rivers  do  here,  taking  all  the  spring  ver- 
dure with  it,  and  reappeared  again  to  make  a  veritable 
Happy  Valley,  the  like  of  which  few  ever  see  on  this 
earth. 

Narrow  at  the  entrance,  it  widens  to  an  oval  sur- 
rounded by  thousand-foot  walls  glowing  with  color, 
its  floor  of  new  alfalfa  shining  like  green  enamel.  Giant, 
shady  cottonwoods  line  the  river  and  the  lazy  road  mean- 
dering beside  it  along  the  valley.  A  deep  blue  sky,  nearly 
hidden  by  sun-flecked  leaves,  arches  over  rose-red  cliffs. 
Before  the  agency,  women,  with  stolid  dark  faces  and 
head-dresses  made  of  four  brilliant  handkerchiefs  sewn 
together  into  a  long  scarf,  gathered,  chattering  with 
excitement  at  sight  of  the  white  women,  making  simple 
friendly  overtures,  offering  us  yellow  plums,  and  giggling 
good-naturedly  at  our  riding  breeches.  They  themselves 


THE  GRAND  CANYON  229 

ketry,  but  their  remoteness  prevents  their  making  a  living 
thereby.  Their  lovely  valley  is  too  narrow  for  the  sheep 
grazing  of  the  Navajos,  and  no  oil  wells  have  made  them 
millionaires,  like  the  Cherokees.  With  the  winter  floods, 
their  life  becomes  meager  and  rheumatic.  The  govern- 
ment seems  to  assume  that  the  unimportant  handful,  so 
inconveniently  remote,  is  likely  to  die  out  soon, — so  why 
trouble  about  them  ? 

Visitors  are  so  rare  that  we  were  the  centre  of  an  ad- 
miring group  on  the  agent's  lawn.  Havasupai  from  nine 
months  to  ninety  years  freely  commented  on  our  every 
move.  They  imitated  us  as  we  ate  apricots,  and  imi- 
tated us  as  we  threw  away  the  pits.  The  chief's  wife, 
a  bride  from  the  Wallapi,  centered  her  fascinated  gaze 
on  Toby,  and  nearly  sent  that  young  lady  into  hysterics 
by  faithfully  repeating  every  word  and  inflection  she 
uttered. 

Though  of  the  sincerest  flattery,  this  mimicry  finally 
palled,  and  we  made  our  way  to  what  we  had  been  told 
was  a  secluded  nook  of  the  river,  where  we  might  bathe 
unmolested.  Seclusion  was  essential,  as  we  had  to  bathe 
as  the  small  boy  does,  sans  clothes  and  sans  reproche. 
We  found  the  nook,  the  river  shaded  by  dense  osiers, 
but  its  shore  bordering  the  main  street  of  the  village. 
Several  Havasupai  rode  by  our  swimming  hole,  and  we 
ducked,  in  danger,  like  some  of  Toby's  films,  of  overex- 
posure.  Their  heads  turned  as  gentlemen's  naturally 
would  in  such  circumstances, — or,  not  to  be  ambiguous, 
— away.  These  Havasupai,  though  dirty  and  unread, 
were  gentlemen,  according  to  the  definition  of  a  certain 
Pullman  porter  I  once  met. 

Being  about  to  descend  from  an  upper  berth  on  a 


230 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


crowded  sleeper  I  had  inquired  of  the  porter  if  the  berth 
below  was  occupied. 

"Yas'm,"  the  porter  replied.  "A  man,  lady.  But  he's 
a  gen'lman.  He's  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  An'  now 
he  is  a  shuttin'  his  eyes.  Take  youah  time,  lady." 

I  relate  our  adventure,  not  to  flaunt  our  brazen  conduct 
— the  valley  registered  one  hundred  odd  in  the  twilight, 
and  you  would  have  done  as  we  did, — but  to  illustrate  the 
Tightness  of  certain  Indian  instincts,  not  confined  to  these 
few  Havasupai. 

It  was  the  following  day,  when  we  explored  the  lower 
Cataract  canyon,  that  we  had  our  supreme  experience  in 
bathing,  the  bath  of  baths,  before  which  Susanna's, 
Marat's,  Anna  Held's,  Montezuma's,  Hadrian's,  Messa- 
lina's,  Diana's  and  other  famous  ablutions  were  as 
naught.  Our  ride  took  us  into  the  lower  village,  past  the 
prim  board  houses  the  government  erects  and  the  Indians 
refuse  to  inhabit,  to  the  clusters  of  thatched  mud  and 
reed  huts  which  they  prefer.  The  chief  of  the  tribe  sat 
before  his  dwelling,  his  family  about  him  to  the  third 
and  fourth  generation,  including  his  new  Wallapi  wife. 
We  bought  baskets  from  him,  prompting  him  to  call 
"Hanegou"  after  us. 

"What  does  'Hanegou'  mean?"  asked  Toby. 

"It  means  'fine,'  'all  right,'  'how  do  you  do'  or  'good- 
by',"  answered  the  guide. 

It  seemed  a  convenient  sort  of  word,  as  it  has  several 
lesser  meanings  as  well.  As  we  rode  along  I  amused  my- 
self by  inventing  a  conversation  in  Havasupai,  quite  a 
long  imaginary  conversation  between  two  Havasu  bucks. 
It  is  remarkable  how  quickly  I  can  pick  up  a  language. 

1st.     Havasu.     "Hanegou?"     (How  do  you  do?) 


THE  GRAND  CANYON  231 

2d.     Havasu.     "Hanegou."     (How  do  you  do?) 

ist.    Hav.     "Hanegou."      (Fine.) 

2d.  Hav.  "How  are  crops?"  (In  Havasupai,  of 
course). 

ist.     Hav.     "Hanegou."   (All  right.) 

2d.     Hav.     "Hanegou!"   (Fine!) 

ist.     Hav.     "Hanegou."    (Well,  good-by.) 

2d.     Hav.    "Hanegou!"  (Good-by,  yourself !) 

Then  the  two  would  pass  on,  each  no  doubt  thinking  of 
the  other,  "What  a  card  that  fellow  is — always  getting 
off  some  new  wheeze!" 

Before  the  chief's  Hanegous  had  died  away,  we  were 
riding  through  an  enchanting  glade,  half  forest,  half 
orchard.  Golden,  luscious  apricots  hung  so  low  that  we 
picked  handfuls  as  we  rode  under  the  trees.  Then  the 
tangle  of  half-tropical  growth  grew  thicker,  till  the  whole 
red-walled  valley  was  a  mass  of  feathery  verdure.  It 
opened  suddenly  upon  the  river  at  a  broad  quiet  ford, 
through  which  the  horses  splashed  eagerly. 

"Look  back,"  said  the  guide.  Over  our  shoulders 
we  saw  a  sight  that  alone  would  have  repaid  us  for  our 
two  days'  ride.  Framed  by  the  green  jungle,  a  delicate 
exquisite  white  waterfall  high  above  us  fell  into  a  series 
of  rocky  basins,  with  the  water  from  these  making  smaller 
shadows  and  rapids  until  it  reached  the  ford.  They  were 
the  Navajo  Falls,  which  in  a  country  less  prodigal  of  won- 
ders would  have  a  reputation  all  to  themselves. 

As  we  continued  up  and  down  through  the  thicket,  a 
veritable  flight  of  stone  steps  too  steep  for  descending  on 
horseback  dismounted  us,  and  again  quite  casually  we 
looked  to  our  right,  and  saw  falls  twice  the  height  of 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 

Niagara.  But  Niagara  cannot  display  the  same  back- 
ground of  vivid  cliffs,  long  canyon  vistas,  tangled  and 
matted  with  tropical  trees  and  vines,  nor  its  perfect  pool 
of  aquamarine.  But  to  name  a  waterfall  Bridal  Veil 
is  like  naming  a  Smith  offspring  John. 

Mooney's  Fall,  the  third  and  grandest  of  all  in  this 
rare  canyon,  was  more  appropriately  named,  though 
whether  in  reverence  or  irreverence  is  hard  to  judge. 
For  this  was  doubly  Mooney's  Fall.  Mooney  was  a  pros- 
pector, intent  on  investigating  some  of  the  rich  veins  of 
lead,  gold  and  silver  still  unexplored  in  this  canyon.  In 
descending  a  cliff  sheer  enough  to  daunt  anyone  but  an 
old  prospector,  he  lost  his  hold.  His  skeleton  was  found 
months  later  by  our  own  guide,  William  Bass,  at  the 
foot  of  the  falls  now  bearing  his  name.  Sheer  preci- 
pices lead  to  the  pool  at  the  base  of  the  cascade,  and  to 
reach  it,  we  left  our  horses  and  entered  a  limestone  tunnel 
ingeniously  worked  in  and  out  the  soft  rock,  and  thus 
threading  our  way  finally  reached  the  bottom,  and  stood 
exulting  in  the  suddenly  cool  air,  electric  with  white  spray, 
falling  into  the  great  pool  below.  Like  the  caves  through 
which  we  crawled,  the  cliff  behind  the  falls  was  of  red 
limestone,  not  solid  rock  but  like  carved  lace,  or  rather, 
like  the  Japanese  wave  symbol,  which  seemed  to  have 
frozen  eternally  when  at  its  crest.  And  this  was  covered 
with  ferns  and  moss  and  bright  flowers,  while  blue  birds 
flashing  over  the  pool  in  flocks  were  singing  their  joy  at 
reaching  this  cool  haven. 

Here  was  our  bath  de  luxe.  I  am  sure  no  king  or 
courtesan  ever  found  one  more  nearly  perfect.  While 
the  guides  explored  another  canyon,  we  swam  to  our 
hearts'  content,  cool  for  the  first  time  in  days.  The  white 


MOONEY'S  FALL,  HAVASUPAI  CANYON,  ARIZONA. 


THE  GRAND  CANYON  233 

lime  bottom  gave  the  pool  a  jewel  clearness.  Though  it 
came  to  our  shoulders  it  looked  only  a  few  inches  deep. 
Spray-drenched,  we  swam  as  near  as  we  dared  to  the 
great  cascade,  which  set  the  pool  dancing  in  eternal  waves. 
When  we  finished  our  swim  we  were  invigorated  as  if  a 
dozen  masseuses  had  spent  the  day  over  us. 

Our  last  night  in  this  Eden  known  only  to  a  few  brown 
Adams  and  Eves,  when  the  heat  became  too  intense  for 
sleep  indoors,  I  took  a  blanket  and  spread  it  under  the 
trees.  The  full  moon  made  the  little  valley  more  of  a 
Paradise  than  ever.  I  lay  and  watched  the  light  climb 
the  massive  cliffs  that  wall  in  the  canyon  entrance,  till  it 
reached  the  two  grotesquely  shaped  pillars  surmounting 
either  cliff.  The  Havasupai  have  a  legend  concerning 
these  monoliths,  so  oddly  perched  that  they  command 
oversight  of  the  whole  village.  They  are  not  really  rocks, 
but  gods, — the  tutelary  gods  of  the  tribe.  One  the  Hava- 
supai call  the  Old  Lady,  while  the  other  is  naturally 
the  Old  Man.  For  centuries  they  have  guarded  their 
people.  Yes,  but  the  breath  of  scandal  touches  even  gods, 
— and  even  gods  of  stone.  For  one  morning,  years  ago,  a 
chief  of  the  tribe  rose  unusually  early, — and  saw, — don't 
let  it  go  any  further,  although  I  had  it  very  straight, — he 
saw  the  Old  Man  returning  hastily  to  his  rock.  At  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  mind  you !  Easy  enough  to  guess 
where  he'd  been. 

But  I  fell  asleep  watching,  and  when  I  awoke  the  Old 
Man  and  Old  Lady  were  still  sedately  on  their  pillars. 
Well,  that  was  a  long  while  ago,  after  all,  and  gods  will 
be  gods. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FROM  WILLIAMS  TO  FORT  APACHE 

WILLIAMS,"  said  the  Old-Timer  to  us,  as  he  di- 
rected us  to  that  progressive  but  uninteresting 
little  town,  "when  I  first  came  west  was  a  typical  shoot- 
'em-up  town,  with  thirty-six  saloons; — thirty  of  them  in 
tents,"  he  added  emphatically,  as  if  this  made  a  climax  of 
inquiry,  I  remarked  later  to  Toby. 

uThe  drinking,  I  suppose,  was  more  intense,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"Owing  to  more  frequent  drafts,"  I  retaliated. 

Williams,  set  in  a  sea  of  white  dust,  looked  both  mod- 
ern and  harmless,  as  if  to  make  up  for  its  youthful  wild 
oats  by  a  humdrum  middle-age.  Numerous  drug-stores 
had  replaced  its  three  dozen  saloons,  and  a  Sabbath 
calm  reigned  on  its-  dusty  streets.  We  bought  gasoline, 
and  went  on,  not  over-pleased  with  Williams.  We  felt 
it  did  not  live  up  to  its  early  rakishness.  But  appearances 
count  for  very  little  after  all.  Not  five  minutes  later,  a 
small  man  driving  a  small  car,  with  a  large  blond  woman 
beside  him,  approached  and  signaled  us.  We  saw  he 
was  excited,  and  she,  though  normally  florid,  was  the 
color  of  an  uncooked  pie. 

My  prophetic  soul  caused  me  to  say,  "Shall  we  stop? 
It  may  be  a  hold-up,"  when  he  called,  "Stop !  stop  I  WeVe 
just  been  held  up,  a  mile  back." 

"When?" 

234 


FROM  WILLIAMS  TO  FORT  APACHE    235 

"Five  minutes  ago."  We  had  spent  those  same  five 
minutes  buying  gasoline  at  Williams.  "Canst  work  in 
the  ground  so  fast?"  I  apostrophised  our  guardian  angels. 
The  woman  broke  in  shrilly.  uTwo  masked  men  with 
revolvers  stood  by  the  road.  They  took  everything  we 
had,  then  made  for  the  woods." 

"Did  you  lose  much?" 

"Nine  dollars,"  said  the  little  man.  "If  I'd  had  more 
they'd  got  it." 

When  the  shaken  couple  left,  we  debated  whether  to 
go  ahead.  Perhaps  the  masked  pair  awaited  us  in  the 
road  beyond.  Finally  deciding  they  would  be  no  more 
anxious  to  meet  us  than  we  them,  we  hid  our  valuables,  I 
in  my  hat  and  Toby  under  the  floor.  Before  we  finished, 
a  Ford  approached  driven  by  two  men  of  villainous  ap- 
pearance enhanced  by  a  week's  beard,  and  criminal  look- 
ing red  shirts.  Seeing  us  they  wavered,  slowed  down  and 
seemed  about  to  stop  beside  us,  then  changed  their  minds 
and  dashed  past,  looking  at  us  searchingly.  Their  pecu- 
liar conduct  and  unprepossessing  features  made  us  certain 
that  they  were  the  thieves.  Our  long  expected  bandits 
had  come,  and  had  passed  us  for  a  little  man  in  a  flivver 
with  nine  dollars.  We  were  to  a  certain  extent  relieved, 
I  must  confess.  Still,  when  you  go  west  adventuring,  your 
friends  expect  you  to  be  held  up  by  outlaws,  and  you  hate 
to  disappoint  them  with  an  anti-climax. 

When  we  reported  the  incident  at  "Flag,"  the  Flag- 
staffians  seemed  wounded  in  their  municipal  pride.  Noth- 
ing of  that  sort,  they  said,  had  happened  for  years,  and 
asked  if  we  had  visited  the  Observatory.  Flagstaff  is  no 
longer  a  frontier  town.  I  bought  a  hat  there  which  was 
afterward  admired  in  Boston,  if  that  signifies  anything. 


236  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

The  town  is  best  known  for  its  observatory,  which  we 
drove  up  a  beautiful  winding  hill  to  view,  and  found  it 
looked  like  any  other  observatory.  There  are  some  cliff 
dwellings  overlooking  a  pretty  little  green  ravine,  called 
Walnut  Canyon.  Dominating  all  Flagstaff  the  crescent 
of  cold  San  Francisco  peaks  looks  benignly  over  half 
Arizona,  lovely  in  their  bold  and  serene  silhouette. 

On  the  road  between  Holbrook  and  St.  Johns,  as  we 
journeyed  toward  Apacheland,  we  stopped  a  few  hours  in 
the  petrified  forests  whose  fallen  trunks  line  the  road 
for  miles.  Whatever  turned  them  to  stone,  at  the  same 
time  burned  the  heart  out  of  the  surrounding  country. 
Leprous  looking  erosions,  sulphur  colored  and  sickly 
white,  make  the  only  break  in  an  absolutely  flat  landscape. 
An  unbending  road  stretches  miles  without  a  change  in  its 
monotony,  choking  in  alkali  dust  and  twisting  sandstorms. 
Beyond  is  the  painted  desert — bad  lands  which,  but  for 
the  ethereal  sunset  colors  tinting  butte  and  mesa  with 
unearthly  glory,  would  be  as  unspeakably  desolate  as  the 
rest.  The  forest  itself  lies  fallen  in  an  alkali  plain.  Un- 
countable tons  of  these  giant  fragments,  waist-high,  per- 
fect to  the  last  detail  in  the  grain  of  the  wood,  the  rough- 
ness of  the  bark,  knot-holes  and  little  twigs,  cover  the 
ground.  The  strange  stone,  which  polishes  like  glass  and 
cuts  like  diamonds,  is  nearly  semi-precious,  yet  in  this 
vicinity  houses  are  paved  with  the  blocks.  We  passed 
over  a  bridge  whose  foundation  was  a  giant  petrified  tree. 
It  was  depressing,  these  acres  and  acres  of  stone  trees, 
frozen  in  the  height  of  their  glory  by  the  cruel  Medusa, 
Nature.  I  felt  the  same  pensive  kinship  of  mortality 
with  these  trees  one  feels  at  Pompeii  with  the  huddled, 
lava-encrusted  bodies  clutching  their  treasures. 


FROM  WILLIAMS  TO  FORT  APACHE  237 

"I  wonder  what  petrified  these  here  trees?"  exclaimed 
a  voice  behind  us.  We  turned.  If  I  had  not  known  the 
trees  were  petrified  before  her  arrival  I  might  have  held 
her  responsible.  As  she  stood,  she  might  easily  have 
turned  a  whole  continent  to  stone.  She  might  have  posed 
for  Avoirdupois,  minus  the  poise.  She  wore,  in  addition 
to  her  figure,  a  gayly  striped  silk  sweater,  high-heeled 
French  slippers,  silk  stockings,  a  jockey  cap  and  over- 
alls. Overalls,  like  boudoir  caps  and  kimonos  in  Pull- 
mans, are  the  approved  hiking  costume  of  the  new  West 
for  both  sexes.  Unfortunately,  there  was  more  of  her 
to  wear  overalls  than  there  were  overalls  to  wear. 

We  had  seen  many  of  her  kind,  always  touring  the 
country  in  a  little  rattly  car,  out  for  a  good  time,  careless 
of  looks,  dressed  in  a  motley  of  overalls,  sunbonnets, 
middy  blouses,  regardless  of  age  or  former  condition  of 
dignity,  sometimes  driving,  and  sometimes  delegating 
the  task  to  a  little  man  crowded  up  against  the  wheel; — 
there  is  never  more  than  one  man  to  a  earful  of  women 
and  children.  We  were  now  in  the  heart  of  the  sage- 
brush tourist  belt,  where  motoring  is  not  the  sport  of  the 
wealthy,  but  the  necessity  of  the  poor.  With  bedding 
rolls  and  battered  suitcases  strapped  to  running  boards; 
canteens,  tents,  chuck-boxes  and  the  children's  beds  tied 
on  with  ropes  wherever  ropes  will  go ;  loaded  inside  with 
babies,  dogs  and  Pater  and  Materfamilias,  and  outside 
with  boastful,  not  to  say  sneering  banners;  these  little 
cars  serve  for  transportation,  freight-van,  restaurant  and 
hotel.  Bought  second  or  third  hand,  they  rattle  the 
family  off  on  vacations  or  business,  and  at  the  journey's 
end  are  sold  third  or  fourth-hand.  At  night  no  garage 
or  hotel  for  them,  but  a  corner,  a  secluded  corner  if  they 


238 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


arrive  early  enough,  in  the  municipal  parking  grounds. 
Here  with  frank  gregariousness  they  exchange  confi- 
dences with  other  sage-brush  tourists,  while  Paterfamilias 
mends  the  dubious  tires  and  tinkers  with  the  weak  spark 
plug,  and  Materfamilias  cooks  supper  over  an  open  fire. 
Then  they  drape  a  tent  or  a  mere  canvas  over  the  car, 
take  a  lantern  inside,  and  one  by  one  undress,  blissfully  ig- 
norant that  their  silhouettes  are  shamelessly  outlined  on 
the  canvas.  As  these  municipal  camps  were  a  bit  too  noisy 
for  people  who  loved  sleep  as  did  Toby  and  I,  we  usually 
sought  the  open  country,  but  we  loved  to  walk  through 
the  grounds,  and  enjoy  their  sociability.  The  rich  and 
haughty,  we  thought,  would  not  be  half  so  bored  with 
travel  if  they  earned  their  delights  as  these  sage-brushers 
do.  Fords  have  replaced  prairie  schooners,  and  Indians 
are  less  interested  in  one's  scalp  than  one's  pocketbook, 
yet  overland  travel  still  furnishes  adventure,  as  any  one 
of  the  tow-heads  we  met  from  El  Paso  to  Gallup  will  tell 
their  grandchildren  fifty  years  hence.  But  you  must  leave 
behind  limousine  and  liveried  chauffeur,  forswear  pal- 
ace hotels,  and  get  out  and  rub  elbows  with  folks.  The 
real  sage-brush  tourists  care  nothing  for  "side."  Proudly 
flaunting  their  atrocious  banners,  they  patch  their  tires  to 
the  last  ribbon,  and  wash  their  dirty  babies  in  public. 

Occasionally  there  are  exceptions  to  these  happy-go- 
lucky  pioneers.  One  such  family  we  met  at  the  very  ebb 
of  their  fortunes.  They  were  migrating  to  Texas,  and 
midway,  their  hoodless  ramshackle  engine,  tires,  and 
pump  had  collapsed  like  the  one  horse  shay.  We  filled 
their  canteen,  which  had  also  leaked  dry,  pumped  their 
tires  with  our  engine,  and  offered  what  road  advice  we 
could,  with  the  remains  of  our  lunch.  At  last,  after  re- 


FROM  WILLIAMS  TO  FORT  APACHE  239 

peated  cranking  the  man  got  the  wheezy  engine  started, 
and  the  woman,  like  Despair  in  a  calico  wrapper,  leaned 
forward  and  took  up  her  task  of  holding  down  the  engine 
with  her  hand,  protected  by  a  black  stocking.  Poor  shift- 
less folk,  wherever  they  settled  eventually,  it  is  fairly 
certain  their  luck  did  not  improve. 

We  were  bound  by  easy  stages  for  a  long-sought  goal, 
a  seductive  and  elusive  province  of  which  even  native 
Arizonans  knew  little.  Yet  it  was  the  little  they  told 
which  enticed  us. 

"I've  not  been  myself  to  the  White  Mountains,"  one 
old-timer  after  another  would  say,  "but  I've  always  heard 
how  they  are  the  prettiest  part  of  the  state.  Everything 
in  the  world  you'd  want, — mountains,  rivers,  a  world  of 
running  water,  trout  that  fight  to  get  on  your  bare  hook, 
big  game,  mountain  lions  and  such.  I've  always  aimed  to 
go  sometime." 

Our  "sometime"  had  come,  after  long  waiting  for  the 
twelve-foot  snows  to  melt  which  covered  the  road  till 
May.  Through  pretty,  little  irrigated  towns  high  in  the 
hills,  we  reached  at  sunset  a  district  far  different  from  the 
burnt  aridity  we  passed  at  noon.  Lakes  were  linked  to 
each  other  under  green  hills  like  ours  at  home.  We 
looked  across  ridges  and  long  irrigated  pastures,  and 
rode  through  fields  blue  with  iris,  and  groves  of  gummy 
pines  and  the  hugest  white  birches  I  ever  saw.  The  roads 
were  next  to  impossible.  We  bumped  violently  over  an- 
noying thank-you-marms  past  Cooley's  ranch,  former 
home  of  an  officer  who  married  an  Apache  woman,  and 
whose  sons  now  own  half  the  beautiful  valley,  and  have 
built  a  lumber  camp  that  is  fast  converting  these  forests 
into  history.  At  ten  o'clock  of  a  full  and  weary  day,  we 


24o  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

reached  the  reservation  of  the  White  River  Apaches, 
situated  on  the  lovely  river  of  that  name.  A  few  miles 
below,  where  the  river  forks  between  rolling  hills,  is  a 
cavalry  station,  relic  of  the  days  when  the  Apache  was 
the  terror  of  Arizona. 

We  had  to  beg  Uncle  Sam  once  more  to  put  us  up  for 
the  night.  Not  too  gracious — rather  grumpily,  in  fact, — 
he  granted  permission,  notwithstanding  that  in  that  re- 
mote and  innless  region,  his  is  the  only  resort  travelers 
have,  and  the  one  to  which  they  are  always  directed. 
They  pay  a  stipulated  sum  for  lodging  and  for  meals  ;— 
nevertheless  the  average  government  agency  is  not  the 
most  hospitable  place  in  the  world. 

Only  a  few  Indians  were  visible  next  morning  on  the 
reservation.  A  crowd  of  men  hung  round  the  village 
store  at  Fort  Apache,  or  loafed  under  the  trees  in  the 
square.  A  pretty  girl  on  horseback  smiled  at  us,  con- 
scious that  her  necklace  of  brass  bells  and  celluloid  mir- 
rors made  her  the  best  dressed  debutante  in  Apacheland. 
A  very  intelligent  lad  directed  us  to  the  trout  stream 
where  we  hoped  to  see  the  trout  fight  for  the  privilege  of 
landing  on  our  bare  hooks.  The  Apaches  are  round- 
headed  Indians,  rather  sullen  we  were  told,  with  staring 
round  eyes,  more  stocky  than  the  lithe  Navajo,  better 
able  to  account  for  themselves  than  the  Papagoes ;  though 
in  the  past  of  ceaseless  warfare,  it  has  been  give  and 
take,  the  Apaches  losing  as  often  as  the  other  tribes.  In 
a  land  teeming  with  fish  and  game,  they  have  become 
lazy,  and  the  beautiful  craftwork  for  which  the  tribe  was 
formerly  noted  is  seldom  attempted  by  the  younger  gene- 
ration. Their  industry  does  not  compare  with  that  of  the 
Hopis,  who  are  constantly  weaving  baskets,  baking  pot- 


A  TROUT  STREAM  IN  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS,  ARIZONA. 


FROM  WILLIAMS  TO  FORT  APACHE  241 

tery,  or  wresting  meager  crops  from  the  land.  Being  the 
last  tribe  to  take  the  warpath,  not  so  many  years  ago,  they 
are  closely  watched  against  another  outbreak. 

Bright  and  early  we  drove  up  the  river  fork,  until  what 
road  there  was  ceased,  and  became  a  flight  of  steps,  and 
our  progress  was  made  in  standing  jumps.  The  old  lady 
outdid  herself,  and  when  her  nose  bumped  against  rocks 
too  abrupt  to  ride  over,  actually  gathered  herself  together 
like  a  hunter,  and  leaped  over  them.  At  last  when  the 
hilly  trail  began  to  cave  in  on  the  outer  side,  we  aban- 
doned the  car  and  walked  a  mile  farther  to  our  camp, 
near  a  cottage  whose  owners  were  away. 

It  was  a  beautiful  glade  we  had  selected  for  camp,  so 
peaceful  and  remote  that  we  seemed  at  the  earth's  end. 
The  White  Mountains  were  indeed  all  they  had  been 
painted.  Sunny  fields  leading  to  distant  peaks,  a  glade 
with  dimpling  brown  brooks,  fallen  logs,  tiny  cascades, 
baby  whirlpools,  sunlit  shadows  tempting  to  trout,  a  green 
tangle  of  summer  overhead,  and  the  delicious  tang  of 
pine-sweetened  mountain  air,  ought  to  please  the  most 
exacting.  We  lacked  only  the  trout,  for,  relying  on  their 
abundance,  we  had  traveled  light  for  food.  Flecks  of 
white  in  the  brook  showed  this  abundance  no  empty  prom- 
ise. Occasionally  a  shining  body  leaped  in  the  air  and 
splashed  back  into  the  brown  water.  Not  the  fourteen 
pound  monsters  of  the  northern  lakes,  these,  but  little 
brook  trout,  of  a  hand's  length,  meltingly  sweet  to  the 
taste.  Our  mouths  already  watered.  Untangling  our 
tackle,  we  started  to  dig  for  worms.  We  had  been  pre- 
sented with  a  pailful  of  bait,  but  in  the  excitement  of  get- 
ting off  had  left  it  at  the  reservation. 

The  sun  was  just  low  enough  to  fleck  the  river  with 


242 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


warm  pools  and  shady  eddies.  Soon  Toby  exclaimed 
with  pleasure,  the  pleasure  finding  a  worm  gives  only 
when  one  intends  to  fish.  She  had  bisected  a  fat,  tempt- 
ing rascal,  assuring  one  trout,  at  least.  When  the  sun 
was  an  hour  lower,  and  it  was  getting  a  trifle  chilly  for 
fish  to  bite  well,  I  unearthed  another,  a  long,  anaemic, 
dyspeptic  victim,  which  gave  us  renewed  courage.  Either 
worms  were  scarce  or  trout  fishers  had  dug  them  all.  We 
decided  to  give  it  up,  and  fish  with  what  we  had. 

It  took  much  less  time  to  get  rid  of  our  worms  than 
it  did  to  find  them.  Undoubtedly  the  trout  fought  to  get 
on  our  hooks,  but  by  the  same  token  they  fought  still 
faster  to  get  off  again.  We  doled  out  Mutt  and  Jeff,  as 
we  dubbed  our  treasures,  inchmeal  to  the  rapacious  brutes, 
but  we  were  not  proof  against  their  popularity. 

"This  is  the  last  piece,"  I  said  to  Toby.  And,  of 
course,  when  she  dropped  it  into  the  water,  there  came  a 
timid  tug,  and  a  rush.  Victorious  Toby  pulled  out  a 
trout,  and  threw  him  back  in  disgust.  He  was  all  of  two 
inches  long. 

It  was  four  and  after  when  we  returned  to  our  trenches 
and  started  digging  again.  Then  a  splash,  and  through 
the  speckled  shade  a  cavalry  officer  came  riding.  We 
called  after  him. 

"Any  worms  in  this  place?" 

"Any  what?"  His  horse  was  carrying  him  further 
downstream. 

"Wor-rums?" 

His  voice  came  faintly  back, — "Dig  near  the  water." 
We  dug  near  the  water  for  another  half  hour.  Then  we 
gave  it  up,  and  hot  and  discouraged  made  for  the  empty 
cabin  on  the  hill,  hoping  someone  might  have  returned 


FROM  WILLIAMS  TO  FORT  APACHE  243 

and  could  advise  us.  The  house,  though  open,  and  invit- 
ingly adorned  with  beautiful  Apache  baskets,  a  rarity 
since  the  Apaches  became  too  lazy  to  make  them,  was  as 
empty  as  before.  The  tinkle  of  the  telephone  which  sud- 
denly sounded,  emphasized  its  loneliness. 

Toby  and  I  had  the  same  idea,  but  always  more  active, 
she  had  the  receiver  down  while  I  was  crossing  the  room. 

A  forest  ranger  twenty  miles  away  was  making  his  ac- 
customed round  by  'phone,  tracing  the  spread  of  a  forest 
fire  whose  smoke  we  could  dimly  see. 

"Hello!"  he  said,  "Hello!" 

"Hello,"  replied  a  female  voice,  in  cultured  Cambridge 
tones.  "Where  do  you  dig  for  worms?" 

But  a  forest  ranger  learns  to  be  surprised  at  nothing. 
Instantly  his  reply  came  back,  "Look  under  the  stones  at 
the  river's  edge." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Toby,  hanging  up  the  receiver. 

Thanks  to  his  advice,  before  sundown  we  caught  a 
dozen  dainty  brook  trout,  beauties  all,  which,  when 
dipped  in  cracker  crumbs  and  lemon  juice,  and  fried  in 
butter  over  hot  coals,  were  as  good  as  they  were  beauti- 
ful. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  ever  fished  by  telephone. 


246  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

to  a  prayer  meeting  in  his  parlor.  Four  Indians  and  two 
babies  comprised  the  prayer  meeting.  Slicked  up  and 
awkward,  their  faces  shining  with  soap,  they  proved  once 
more  that  clothes  make  the  man.  An  Indian  who  is  ter- 
rifying and  dignified  in  beaded  buckskin  is  only  stolid  in 
overalls  and  necktie.  To  the  tune  of  a  parlor  melodeon 
they  dismally  sang  "Brighten  Up  the  Corner  Where  You 
Are,"  though  it  was  obvious  from  their  expressions  and 
the  wails  of  the  babies  that  if  it  were  left  to  them  the 
Corner  would  stay  just  as  it  Was.  I  could  not  help  won- 
dering, with  all  respect  to  the  sincerity  of  our  host,  what 
advantage  there  was  in  offering  Billy  Sunday's  elemen- 
tary twaddle  to  a  people  whose  language  is  so  subtle  that 
a  verb  paradigm  often  has  1500  forms.  But  surely,  when 
the  Indian  is  taught  to  discard  his  own  arts  and  crafts  and 
culture,  let  us  give  him  substitutes  of  an  equally  high 
standard  from  our  viewpoint.  Pater  might  pass  over  his 
head,  but  Poor  Richard  would  not,  for  his  homely  com- 
monsense  would  find  an  echo  in  the  Indian's  own  native 
philosophy.  Probably  the  most  valuable  thing  the  mis- 
sionary and  his  wife  had  to  offer  they  thought  the  least 
of, — their  warm  friendliness  and  human  interest  in  each 
convert  and  backslider,  their  folksy  neighborliness  with 
red  people,  and  the  unconscious  example  of  their  straight- 
forward lives. 

Keams  Canyon  is  only  eleven  miles  from  the  first  mesa, 
and  our  car  was  soon  climbing  dunes  of  sand  toward 
the  base  of  the  long,  bold  mesa  on  which  Walpi  is  built. 
From  below  we  could  hardly  discern  the  tiny  villages 
perched  on  the  cliff,  so  perfectly  were  the  buildings  fused 
with  the  gray  rock  itself,  both  in  color  and  mass.  Even 
the  black  specks  which  marked  the  position  of  doors  and 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  HOPIS  247 

windows  seemed  like  natural  crevices  in  the  rock.  Mont 
St.  Michel  is  the  only  other  place  I  know  where  archi- 
tecture is  so  completely  one  with  its  foundations. 

As  we  climbed  to  Polacca,  the  Indian  hamlet  at  the 
base  of  Walpi,  the  ruts  became  so  deep  that  at  the  last 
we  were  buried  to  the  hubs.  A  dozen  little  Indians,  gig- 
gling and  shy  like  boys  the  world  over,  ran  to  help  us 
push,  but  their  help  was  of  little  value.  All  our  ques- 
tions, though  they  are  taught  English  at  school,  passed 
over  their  heads,  and  their  replies  were  limited  to  "Yes" 
or  "No,"  shouted  so  hoarsely  that  we  jumped  involun- 
tarily whenever  they  spoke.  For  an  hour  we  chopped 
brush  in  the  broiling  sun,  backed  and  shifted  gears  till  the 
wheels  caught  at  last,  and  we  plunged  up  hill  to  the 
trader's.  He  told  us  we  were  the  first  of  a  dozen  cars 
stalled  there  that  week  to  extricate  ourselves. 

The  village  seemed  deserted  as  we  passed  through. 
Finally  we  met  with  a  red-haired  man  with  a  vague  chin 
who  advised  us  to  camp  near  the  spring,  to  which  he  prom- 
ised to  direct  us. 

"Everybody  in  town  seems  to  have  gone  to  the  next 
mesa,"  commented  Toby. 

"They  have,"  said  he,  while  a  sheepish  expression 
came  over  his  aimless  face.  "They're  holding  an  in- 
quiry into  a  white  man's  fighting  an  Indian.  You  can't 
lay  a  finger  on  these  Hopis,  they  baby  them  so.  Fact  is," 
he  said  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  "I'm  the  man  that  did  it. 
A  buck  called  me  something  I  wouldn't  stand  from  no 
one,  so  I  jest  lit  into  him.  I  was  goin'  to  kill  him,  but  I 
kinder  changed  my  mind, — and  slapped  him  instead." 

He  looked  as  if  his  mind  would  make  such  changes. 
He  went  on  with  much  violence  of  expression  to  give  his 


248  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

opinion  of  the  white  settlers  on  the  reservations,  espe- 
cially the  missionaries, — "they  stay  here  so  long  they  git 
all  dried  up,  and  jest  nachally  hate  themselves  and  every- 
body else." 

His  annoyance  against  the  world  was  so  large  that  we 
made  haste  to  leave  him.  It  was  too  hot  to  champion 
anyone's  grievances,  and  his  seemed  dubious.  I  felt 
sorry  for  the  Indians  who  had  to  deal  with  him.  Indian 
reservations,  as  we  saw  them,  always  seemed  to  harbor 
a  certain  proportion  of  white  vultures  who  were  not  cal- 
culated to  increase  the  Indian's  gratitude  or  respect  for 
the  Great  Father,  and  some  of  them,  unhappily,  were  in 
government  employ. 

We  engaged  a  little  boy  to  act  as  our  guide  to  the 
villages  on  the  mesa  in  which  he  lived,  who  thought  more, 
we  afterward  discovered,  of  getting  a  ride  in  an  auto- 
mobile,— the  delight  of  all  Indians — than  of  his  duties 
as  guide.  Not  many  white  drivers,  I  dare  say,  have  been 
up  that  rocky  and  primitive  road  which  leads  to  the 
ancient  village  of  Walpi.  The  natives  told  us  we  could 
do  it,  so  we  started.  Two  roads  led  to  the  wagon  trail. 
Our  little  guide,  who  was  as  tongue-tied  as  most  Indian 
children,  was  for  directing  us  toward  one,  when  a  fat 
woman,  hung  with  jewels,  and  clad  in  a  cerise  wrapper, 
leaned  over  a  fence  and  argued  the  point  with  him.  Polac- 
ca  sees  more  strangers  than  any  other  Hopi  village, 
owing  to  its  position,  and  the  importance  of  the  snake 
dance  which  takes  place  there  every  September,  yet  visi- 
tors were  rare  enough  for  us  and  our  car  to  be  objects  of 
interest.  So  we  followed  her  advice  and  took  the  other 
road,  and  a  few  rods  further,  came  to  a  dead  stop  in  the 
deep  beach  sand  which  surrounds  the  town.  It  was  only 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  HOPIS  249 

the  third  or  fourth  time  it  had  happened,  so  that  we  did 
not  despair,  though  we  did  not  relish  the  thought  of  an- 
other half  hour's  digging  and  shoving  under  the  burning, 
sickening  heat  of  the  desert  sun.  Our  guide  took  the 
inevitable  quarter  hour  for  reflection  common  to  Indians, 
then  he  summoned  his  juvenile  playmates,  and  they  cut 
bush  for  us,  and  tramped  it  into  the  bad  places  until  we 
were  able  to  go  on  sooner  than  we  expected.  We 
branched  on  to  a  road,  roughly  paved  with  great  rocks, 
and  rutted  by  the  cart  wheels  of  three  centuries,  like 
the  dead  streets  of  Pompeii.  The  nose  of  the  car  began 
to  point  skyward,  and  climbed  up,  up,  while  the  desert 
dropped  away  from  us.  To  go  over  that  road  once  is  an 
experience,  but  I  should  not  care  to  repeat  it  often.  It 
wound  up  the  side  of  the  mesa,  with  sometimes  a  low 
parapet  to  keep  us  from  dropping  off,  and  sometimes 
nothing  at  all.  A  boulder  now  and  then  or  rough  ledge 
cropping  across  the  road  would  tilt  the  old  lady  at  an 
uncomfortable  angle.  Heights  and  climbs  over  danger- 
ous switchbacks  had  become  commonplaces  of  travel  by 
now,  and  we  had  gained  confidence  from  learning  the  tre- 
mendous flexibility  of  which  a  motor  car  is  capable.  We 
were  willing,  without  taking  credit  for  extraordinary 
courage,  to  undertake  almost  any  road  wide  enough  for 
our  tracks.  People  who  confine  their  driving  to  perfect 
boulevards  and  city  roads  have  no  idea  of  the  exhilarating 
game  motoring  really  is.  My  wrists  were  like  iron,  and  I 
had  developed  a  grip  in  my  fingers  it  would  have  taken 
years  to  acquire  otherwise.  No  grade  seemed  too  steep 
for  the  "old  lady," — how  we  relied  on  her  pulling 
power!  Much  of  the  climb  we  accomplished  on  high, 
though  at  the  final  grade,  where  she  fairly  stood  on  end, 


250  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

we  shifted  to  low.  And  at  last  we  were  in  the  street  of 
Walpi,  looking  down  on  a  blue-gray  sea  several  hundred 
feet  below  us,  and  surrounded  by  a  group  of  interested 
natives,  who  with  great  presence  of  mind  had  filled  their 
hands  with  pottery  to  sell. 

What  is  commonly  called  Walpi  is  really  three  towns, 
Walpi,  Sichomovi,  and  a  Tewa  village  called  Hano. 
The  people  in  the  last  village,  which  is  the  first  as  you 
enter  the  towns  from  the  road,  have  little  traffic  with  the 
Walpi  people,  but  the  division  line  is  well  nigh  invisible 
between  Sichomovi  and  Hano.  Beyond  the  second  town 
the  mesa  narrows,  and  over  a  slender  tongue  of  rock, 
part  of  which  has  fallen  away  in  recent  years  during  a 
severe  storm,  we  looked  across  to  the  most  interesting 
village  of  Walpi. 

Against  an  intense  blue  sky  it  blocked  its  irregular 
outline  high  above  the  delicate  desert,  with  gnarled  sticks 
of  ladders  angling  out  from  the  solid  mass  of  buildings. 
The  crazy  but  fascinating  stone  houses  merging  into  one 
another,  now  swallowing  up  the  road  and  later  disgorg- 
ing it,  made  with  their  warm  sandstone  color  an  effective 
background  for  the  people  who  came  and  went  in  the 
streets,  or  sat  in  the  doorways  in  silver  and  scarlet.  The 
housetops  were  lively  with  children  and  women  in  native 
costume,  or,  more  comfortably  and  less  picturesquely  in 
the  ginghams  and  plaid  shawls  beloved  of  Indians.  The 
squat  houses,  the  women  bending  their  necks  to  great 
water  jars,  the  desert,  all  suggested  a  new-world  Pales- 
tine. 

Compared  with  Walpi,  the  first  two  villages  are  neat 
and  tidy,  their  interiors  whitewashed  clean,  and  little 
pots  of  flowers  almost  invariably  on  the  window  sills. 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  WALPL 


OLDEST  HOUSE  IN  WALPI. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  HOPIS  251 

The  Indian  love  of  flowers  impressed  us  everywhere. 
House  after  house  we  entered,  to  receive  a  soft  smile  of 
welcome  from  the  old  grandfather  squatted  on  the  floor 
dangling  a  naked  brown  baby,  or  from  the  grandmother, 
busy  with  a  bowl  of  clay  which  she  shaped  and  painted 
with  quick  fingers,  while  she  talked  to  us  through  her 
English-speaking  daughter. 

In  these  Hopi  houses,  ropes  of  dark  crimson  jerked 
beef  buzzing  with  flies  fill  the  hot  room  with  a  fragrance 
loved  only  by  the  Indians;  strings  of  wampum,  worth 
sometimes  two  horses  and  a  burro,  rugs,  native  woven 
and  of  the  gaudy  Pendleton  variety,  coats,  overalls,  dried 
herbs  and  peppers  hang  from  convenient  beams.  In 
another  corner,  in  the  older  houses,  is  a  row  of  two  or 
three  metate  bins,  for  grinding  corn,  with  a  smooth  round 
stone  lying  beside  it.  If  one  arrives  during  the  season, 
he  can  witness  the  corn  grinding  ceremony.  A  Pueblo 
woman,  loaded  with  beads  and  silver,  stands  behind  each 
bin,  which  is  filled  with  varied  colored  grains.  In  the 
corner  an  old  man  sits,  beating  the  tombe  in  rhythmical 
strokes  and  singing  the  Song  of  the  Corn  Grinders,  to 
which  the  women  bend  back  and  forth  in  perfect  time, 
rubbing  their  flat  stones  over  the  corn.  No  man  except 
the  singer  of  the  ceremonial  song  can  be  present  in  the 
room  while  this  grinding  is  in  process.  To  violate  this 
rule  is  a  grave  offense. 

Most  of  the  houses  have  a  small  Mexican  fireplace  in 
the  corner.  At  the  side  of  some  rooms  is  a  loom  with 
a  half  finished  rug  on  it,  but  this  is  becoming  a  rare 
sight.  The  Hopis,  who  originally  were  expert  weavers 
and  taught  their  art  to  the  Navajos,  gradually  relin- 
quished it  to  the  Navajos,  who  were  able  to  get  a  superior 


252 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


quality  of  wool.  Now  the  Hopis  trade  their  baskets  and 
pottery  to  the  Navajos  for  their  rugs,  or  buy  the  less 
beautiful  but  more  gaudy  commercial  rugs  from  traders. 

Being  a  native  of  Hano,  our  little  guide  hesitated  to 
take  us  into  Walpi.  It  was  evident  that  no  great  love 
was  lost  between  the  two  villages,  for  a  reason  we  learned 
later,  so  we  preceded  him  across  the  uneven,  narrow 
tongue  of  rock  which  led  to  the  tip  of  the  mesa.  The 
late  afternoon  sun  lighted  the  stony  pile  with  glory, 
and  cast  rich,  violet  shadows  the  length  of  the  houses. 
It  was  almost  impossible  to  disentangle  the  stairs  of  one 
house  from  the  roof  of  another.  Stairways  terraced 
into  the  mortar  of  the  houses  led  to  roofs,  and  ladders 
pointed  still  higher. 

Somehow  Walpi  reminded  me  of  the  little  hill  town  of 
Grasse,  and  the  old  parts  of  San  Remo,  on  the  Riviera. 
There  was  the  same  tolerance  toward  live  stock  in  the 
narrow,  unevenly  paved  streets;  there  were  the  same 
outside  stairways,  and  roofed-in  alleys  and  houses  tum- 
bling on  each  other,  and  looking  into  each  other's  mouths ; 
the  same  defiant  position  on  the  height,  watchful  of 
enemies,  the  same  warm  stucco  and  brightly  painted  door- 
ways. Even  the  dark,  velvety  eyed  children  bore  out  the 
resemblance  to  Italy,  as  they  slouched  against  a  wall,  as 
Italians  love  to  do.  A  small  army  of  children  in  one 
or  less  garments  was  watching  us  from  the  parapets; 
we  pointed  the  camera  at  them,  and  snapped.  When  the 
film  was  developed  only  one  child  remained, — the  rest 
had  ducked. 

We  met  with  less  hospitality  in  Walpi  than  in  the  other 
two  villages  on  the  mesa.  Doors  were  tightly  closed,  for 
the  most  part.  A  few  inhabitants,  mostly  old  women, 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  HOPIS  253 

let  their  curiosity  overcome  their  pride,  and  called  out 
to  us.  One  woman  was  baking  pottery  in  an  oven  edging 
the  lane  which  was  Walpi's  Main  Street.  She  had  buried 
it,  and  was  raking  sheep-dung  over  it  to  insure  its  being 
burned  the  peculiar  reddish  brown  which  the  Hopis  prefer 
in  their  pottery.  A  tiny  burro  wandered  about  at  will, 
and  the  usual  array  of  dogs  yapped  at  us.  At  the  great 
rock,  the  most  conspicuous  identifying  mark  in  Walpi, 
which  bisects  the  narrow  street,  and  is  so  shaped  that 
in  a  Northern  country  it  would  have  to  be  called  Thor's 
Anvil,  my  eye  was  attracted  by  little  sticks  bound  with 
feathers  in  the  crevices  of  the  rock.  I  pulled  one  out, 
and  asked  our  guide  what  they  were. 

"Don't  know,"  he  shouted,  in  the  tone  he  used  when 
speaking  to  us,  perhaps  thinking  it  more  official.  His 
face  was  stolid  and  stupid.  Of  course  he  knew.  They 
were,  as  we  afterward  learned,  the  prayer  sticks  used  in 
the  Hopi  ceremonies  for  rain. 

Across  from  Walpi,  looking  west  over  the  desert,  is  a 
low  long  mesa.  There  the  Indian  youths  go  to  hunt  wild 
eaglets,  to  be  used  in  the  Snake  Dance  ceremonies.  We 
saw  a  group  of  men,  Indians  and  white,  clustered  with 
great  interest  about  a  rough  box  made  of  wooden  slabs. 
As  we  came  nearer,  curious,  we  saw  them  jump  quickly 
back,  wary  and  respectful.  A  young  eagle,  with  a  heavy 
chain  on  one  ankle,  angry  and  ruffled  stood  at  bay,  its  eyes 
gleaming  red,  its  beak  wide  open  and  the  feathers  on  its 
neck  standing  straight  out.  It  was  not  a  creature  to  tam- 
per with,  even  chained  as  it  was.  Never  have  I  seen  any- 
thing so  angry  in  my  life.  It  was  the  embodiment  of 
Fury,  of  rage  that,  silent  and  impotent  as  it  was,  stays 
with  me  ever  now.  How  far  we  Easterners  have  traveled 


254  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

from  the  life  that  was  a  commonplace  to  our  ancestors ! 
Here  was  the  creature  so  native  to  our  country  that  its 
likeness  is  on  our  national  coin,  yet  outside  a  zoo  it  was 
the  first  eagle  I  had  seen.  I  only  recognized  it  as  an 
eagle  because  its  feather-trousered  legs  looked  so  like  the 
St.  Gaudens  designs. 

Between  the  little  painted  prayer  sticks  in  the  big 
rock  at  Walpi,  the  long  mesa  on  the  horizon,  and  the 
captured  fighting  creature  in  the  cage  at  Polacca,  is  an 
interesting  connection.  Rain,  rain,  is  always  the  prayer 
on  every  desert  Indian's  lips.  When  the  spring  freshets 
are  finished,  and  the  land  lies  exhausted  under  the  metallic 
glow  of  an  August  sun,  life  itself  hinges  on  breaking  the 
drought.  Because  the  eagle  is  the  bird  which  reaches 
nearest  to  Heaven,  and  hence  is  most  apt  to  carry  his 
prayer  to  the  gods,  the  Hopis  make  excursions  to  that 
distant  mesa  where  eagle's  nests  are  still  found,  and  bring 
back  a  young  eagle.  This  they  keep  in  captivity  until 
the  time  approaches  for  the  Snake  Dance,  which  is  really 
a  dance  for  rain,  the  snake  being  the  ancestor  god  of 
the  Walpi  people.  Then  they  kill  the  eaglet,  not  by  a 
gun  or  an  axe,  but  without  shedding  its  blood,  they  gently 
stroke  its  neck  until  it  is  numb  and  in  a  stupor.  Then 
they  wring  its  neck,  and  pluck  out  the  downy  feathers 
to  wing  their  prayer  sticks  to  the  gods  above. 

Inextricably  woven  with  the  legends  of  the  Hopi,  and 
especially  those  inhabiting  Walpi,  is  the  Snake  myth, 
which  began  when  a  chief's  son  living  north  of  the  Grand 
Canyon  decided  to  learn  where  the  Colorado  River  went. 
His  father  put  him  in  a  box,  and  thus  he  reached  the 
ocean,  where  the  Spider  Woman  (the  wise-woman  of 
Hopi  mythology)  made  him  acquainted  with  a  strange 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  HOPIS  255 

island  people  who  could  change  at  will  into  snakes.  Pass- 
ing through  all  the  various  tests  imposed  on  him,  with  the 
help  of  the  Spider  Woman,  the  young  man  was  given  a 
bride  from  the  Snake  people.  They  wandered  until  they 
came  finally  to  the  foot  of  Walpi,  and  here  the  Snake 
woman  gave  birth  to  many  children,  all  snakes.  Some 
of  these  bit  the  Hopi  children;  therefore  the  chief's  son 
and  his  wife  returned  all  the  snake  offspring  to  her  peo- 
ple. On  their  return  the  Walpi  folk  permitted  them  to 
live  on  top  of  the  mesa,  and  after  that  time  the  woman's 
children  took  human  form,  and  were  the  ancestors  of  the 
Snake  clan  today. 

The  Hopi  were  originally  migratory  people  moving 
slowly  down  to  their  present  home  from  the  north.  Prob- 
ably the  cliff  dwellings  in  Colorado  and  the  southern  Utah 
country,  and  certainly  in  the  Canyon  du  Chelly,  were  built 
by  them.  After  Walpi  had  been  settled,  other  tribes  came 
to  Sichomovi.  Meanwhile  the  Spanish  monks  had  dis- 
covered Tusayan,  and  had  thoroughly  disciplined  and  in- 
timidated the  unhappy  people.  Like  the  parent  who  gives 
his  son  a  thrashing,  they  did  it  for  the  Hopi's  good, 
but  their  methods  were  tactless.  Great  beams  a  foot 
thick  and  twenty  long  may  today  be  seen  in  the  old 
houses  in  Walpi,  which  these  sullen  Hopis  dragged  from 
San  Francisco  mountains  a  hundred  miles  away,  under  the 
lash  of  the  zealous  monks.  The  Walpis  seem  to  have  a 
morose  nature,  which  one  observes  today  in  their  attitude 
toward  visitors.  Perhaps  the  regime  of  the  Spaniards 
cured  them  forever  of  hospitality.  They  joined  enthu- 
siastically in  the  rebellion  of  1680.  When  every  Span- 
iard was  killed,  the  Walpis  went  back  contentedly  to 
their  reactionary  ways. 


256 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


The  Hano  people  are  of  the  Tewa  tribes,  some  of 
whom  still  live  near  Santa  Fe.  On  the  invitation  of  the 
Walpi,  they  migrated  to  Tusayan,  but  the  Walpi  treated 
them  abominably,  refusing  to  share  their  water  with 
them,  or  to  allow  them  on  their  mesa.  When  the  Hano 
asked  for  food,  the  Walpi  women  poured  burning  por- 
ridge on  their  hands.  When  the  Hano  helped  defeat  the 
Utes  they  were  allowed  to  build  the  third  village  on  top 
of  the  mesa.  They  still  speak  a  different  tongue  from 
the  Walpi,  though  they  lived  for  centuries  within  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile  of  them.  The  reason  is  interesting,  if  true. 

"When  the  Hano  first  came,  the  Walpi  said,  'Let  us 
spit  in  your  mouths  and  you  will  learn  our  tongue/  and  to 
this  the  Hano  consented.  When  the  Hano  moved  to  the 
mesa  they  said  to  the  Walpi,  'Let  us  spit  in  your  mouths, 
that  you  may  learn  our  tongue,'  but  the  Walpi  refused, 
saying  it  would  make  them  vomit.  Since  then,  all  the 
Hano  can  talk  Hopi,  and  none  of  the  Hopis  can  talk 
Hano." 

However  that  may  be,  our  little  guide  was  uneasy  when 
we  crossed  into  Walpi,  and  exchanged  no  words  with 
its  inhabitants,  who  as  they  passed  gave  him  uncordial 
looks. 

As  we  left  Walpi,  it  was  almost  twilight.  It  had  been 
a  burning  hot  day,  but  the  coolness  of  evening  at  high 
altitude  had  settled  on  the  sizzling  rock.  Shadows  that 
in  midday  had  actually  been,  not  purple,  but  deep  crim- 
son, had  lengthened  and  become  cool  blue-gray.  We  care- 
fully steered  our  car,  loaded  with  Hopi  pottery,  down  the 
rocky  and  uneven  wagon  trail.  At  times,  the  ledges  pro- 
jected so  high  in  the  road  that  we  heard  an  unpleasant 
scraping  noise  of  loosening  underpinnings.  We  used  our 


SECOND  MESA,  HOPI  RESERVATION. 


A  HOTAVILLA  SYBIL. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  HOPIS  257 

brake  constantly,  and  braked  with  our  engine  at  the 
steepest  turns.  At  last  we  reached  the  sandy  stretch  at 
the  bottom,  and  with  the  advantage  of  a  downgrade, 
managed  to  get  through  it  safely. 

Still  below  us  and  as  far  as  eyes  could  view,  we  were 
surrounded  by  the  desert.  Now,  as  the  sun  sank  lower, 
and  the  shadows  increased,  it  was  no  longer  a  dazzle  of 
gold  and  silver,  as  at  noonday.  All  the  colors  in  the 
world  had  melted  and  fused  together,  a  wonderful  rose 
glow  tinged  rocks  and  sky  alike.  Distant,  purple  mesas 
floated  on  the  surface  of  the  desert.  The  sun  was  a 
golden  ball  tracing  its  path  to  the  horizon.  A  sea-mist  of 
bluish  gray  hung  over  the  desert,  and  undulating  waves 
carried  out  the  semblance  of  the  ocean.  The  great  rock 
of  Walpi  seemed  like  the  prow  of  a  ship,  or  a  promon- 
tory against  which  the  waves  beat.  Here  in  the  crowded 
East,  it  is  hard  to  write  down  the  satisfying  emotion  the 
tremendous  vastness  created  in  us.  In  this  world  of  rocks 
and  sand,  something  infinitely  satisfied  us  who  had  been 
used  to  green  trees  and  shut  in  spaces  all  our  lives.  We 
did  not  want  to  go  back;  the  desert  was  all  we  needed. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  FOUR  CORNERS 

FORTY-SECOND  street  and  Broadway  is  probably 
the  most  crowded  spot  in  the  United  States.  The 
least  crowded  is  this  region  of  the  Four  Corners,  where 
Utah,  Colorado,  New  Mexico  and  Arizona  come  to- 
gether. Almost  as  primeval  as  when  Adam  and  Eve  were 
bride  and  groom,  it  fits  no  accepted  standards;  too  vast 
and  too  lonely  for  the  taste  of  many,  too  arid  and  glar- 
ing with  sunshine  to  be  called  beautiful  in  a  conven- 
tional sense,  it  differs  from  the  ordinary  "landscape"  as 
Michelangelo  from  Meissonier.  Here,  in  a  radius  of 
seventy-five  miles  are  a  collection  of  wonders  strange 
enough  to  belong  to  another  planet.  The  Navajo  and 
Piute  possess  this  land.  Southeast  is  Zuni  with  its 
highly  civilized  people.  Southwest  are  the  Grand  Can- 
yon, the  Havasupai  Canyon,  the  desert  promontories  of 
the  Hopis  and  the  petrified  forests.  Northeast  is  Mesa 
Verde  National  Park.  Silence-haunted  Canyon  du  Chel- 
ley  lies  on  the  edge  of  Arizona,  and  just  over  the  line 
in  Utah  is  a  land  of  weird  and  mighty  freaks,  monoliths, 
erosions,  tip-tilted  boulders  a  thousand  feet  high,  and 
natural  bridges,  of  which  the  greatest  is  the  Rainbow 
Bridge. 

It  was  the  lure  of  the  Rainbow  Bridge  that  had  gath- 
ered our  party  together  in  the  immaculate  dining-room  of 
El  Navajo  at  Gallup,  one  morning  in  late  May.  We  al- 

258 


THE  FOUR  CORNERS  259 

ready  felt  a  certain  distinction  bestowed  on  us  by  our 
quest.  Not  eighty  white  people  since  the  world  began 
had  viewed  that  massive  arch,  one  among  whom,  named 
Theodore  Roosevelt,  had  written  most  respectfully  of  the 
difficulties  of  the  trail.  There  were  six  of  us,  who  had 
originally  met  and  planned  our  trip  in  Santa  Fe;  the 
guide,  Toby,  and  I,  a  brother  and  sister  from  Ohio 
named  Murray  and  Martha,  and  the  Golfer,  a  man  of  in- 
destructible good-nature. 

"Did  you  get  my  balls?"  inquired  the  last  named,  as  he 
stepped  from  the  train. 

"Did  you  bring  your  clubs?"  I  asked,  simultaneously. 

The  questions  arose  from  a  pact  made  in  Santa  Fe. 
Now  few  are  free  from  the  vanity  of  wishing  to  do  some 
feat  nobody  has  yet  accomplished.  Without  it,  Colum- 
bus would  not  have  discovered  America,  Cook  and  Peary 
would  not  have  raced  to  the  North  Pole,  Blondin  crossed 
Niagara  on  a  tight-rope  nor  Wilson  invented  the 
League  of  Nations.  Ours  was  a  simpler  ambition  than 
any  of  these,  having  its  origin  in  the  Golfer's  passion  for 
improving  his  drive  at  all  times  and  places.  We  had 
hoped,  at  Santa  Fe,  to  be  the  first  white  women  to  visit 
the  Bridge,  having  heard  a  rumor  that  none  had  yet  done 
so,  but  our  guide  disillusioned  us;  several  women  had 
forestalled  us. 

"I  wish  we  might  be  the  first  to  do  something,"  said 
Toby,  who  in  fancy  had  seen  herself  in  a  Joan  of  Arc 
attitude  planting  the  blue  and  white  flag  of  Massachusetts 
on  the  pinnacle  of  the  Bridge. 

"We  might  put  a  golf  ball  over  it,"  I  suggested,  watch- 
ing the  Golfer  polish  his  brassie.  "I  don't  believe  that's 
been  done." 


260 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


"Guess  it  hasn't,"  laughed  the  guide.  "Wait  till  you 
see  the  Bridge." 

"Won't  do  any  harm  to  try,"  said  the  Golfer. 

Then  Murray  and  the  Golfer  and  the  guide  began  dis- 
cussing whether  a  golf  ball  could  or  couldn't  be  driven 
over  the  arch.  The  guide  bet  it  couldn't,  and  to  make 
things  interesting,  we  took  him  up.  The  Golfer  modestly 
deprecated  his  skill,  but  thenceforth  he  was  observed 
practising  his  drive  on  every  occasion. 

We  were  to  drive  to  Kayenta,  and  take  horses  from 
that  point  to  the  Bridge,  a  hundred  miles  further  on. 
While  the  guide  packed  the  car,  we  took  in  the  sights  of 
Gallup.  Thriving  though  unlovely,  facing  the  dust  of 
the  desert,  it  has  a  stronger  flavor  of  the  old  West 
than  most  railroad  towns,  for  roads  from  remote  regions 
converge  into  its  Main  Street.  Old  settlers  from  all  four 
states  rattle  in  over  the  dusty  trails,  no  longer  on  horses, 
but  in  the  row-boat  of  the  desert,  a  Ford.  They  gather 
at  the  Harvey  lunch-room,  and  see  the  latest  movies. 
The  Santa  Fe  thunders  by  with  its  load  of  eastern  tour- 
ists. Gentle-eyed  Zunis  wander  in  from  their  reservation 
to  the  south.  Occasionally  cowboys  in  blue  shirts  and 
stitched  boots  ride  in,  or  a  soldier  in  khaki  from  the 
Fort.  The  shops  are  hung  with  the  silver  every  Navajo 
knows  how  to  fashion  from  Mexican  dollars.  We  saw  a 
group  of  fat  chiefs  decked  in  their  best,  their  henna 
faces  etched  with  canny  lines,  fingering  and  appraising 
the  chunks  of  solid  turquoise  and  wampum  chains  on  each 
other's  necks  as  a  group  of  dowagers  would  compare 
their  diamonds. 

We  started  at  noon,  our  faithful  car  sagging  like  a 
dachshund  under  a  thousand  pounds  of  bedding,  tents, 


THE  FOUR  CORNERS  261 

food  and  suitcases,  in  addition  to  six  passengers, — a  load 
which  was  a  terrific  test  on  these  roads.  As  we  left  Gal- 
lup, passing  the  "Haystacks"  and  other  oddly  shaped 
landmarks,  the  road  became  an  apology,  and  later  an  in- 
sult. High  centres  scraped  the  bottom  of  the  weighted 
car,  so  that  our  spare  tires  acted  as  a  brake,  and  had  to 
be  removed  and  placed  inside,  to  form  an  uncomfortable 
tangle  with  our  legs,  wraps  and  baggage.  But  in  spite 
of  cramped  positions  we  were  hilarious,  knowing  we  had 
actually  started  on  this  long-planned  adventure,  and 
that  before  us  were  eighteefi  days  of  companionship,  with 
unknown  tests  of  our  endurance,  our  tempers  and  pos- 
sibly our  courage,  riding  hard,  sleeping  hard,  living  a 
roofless  existence,  without  benefit  of  laundry. 

An  arid  place  in  the  scorching  sunlight  of  lunch-time, 
the  desert  toward  late  afternoon  became  a  dream  of  pas- 
tels, isolated  mesas  floating  above  its  surface  in  rosy  lilac, 
its  floor  golden,  washed  with  warm  rose  and  henna  tones, 
with  shadows  of  a  misty  blue,  under  a  radiance  of  re- 
flected sunset  light. 

When  the  color  faded,  mesas  and  buttes  stood  out 
sharp  and  black.  The  desert  was  no  longer  a  pastel  but 
a  charcoal  sketch.  As  vision  disappeared  our  sense  of 
smell  was  heightened.  Freshened  in  night  dew  after  a 
parched  day,  a  million  tiny  flowers  seemed  concentrated 
into  a  penetrating  essence,  with  the  aromatic  sage  strong- 
est of  all.  Our  headlights  pierced  a  gloom  miles  long.  It 
was  ten  hours  before  we  reached  the  twinkle  of  Chin  Lee 
lights,  where  we  were  glad  to  find  shelter  and  beds. 

On  the  next  day  we  averaged  exactly  nine  miles  an 
hour  in  the  eighty  miles  to  Kayenta.  In  a  jolty  hand- 
writing I  find  my  auto-log  for  that  day,  "Rotten  road. 


262 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


High  centres,  deep  arroyos,  many  ditches.  Sand.  Part 
of  road  like  painted  desert." 

It  was  a  treacherous  country  to  drive  in.  There  were 
no  maps,  no  sign-posts.  Most  of  the  day  we  met  only 
Navajos,  speaking  no  English.  From  the  few  white 
men  we  met,  we  would  get  some  such  instructions:  "Bear 
northwest  a  ways,  follow  the  creek  till  it  forks;  a  way 
down  on  the  lower  fork  you  pass  a  mesa,  then  bear  east, 
then  west."  This  over  a  distance  of  eighty  miles!  It 
was  worse  than  Texas,  where  we  were  expected  to  get 
our  bearings  by  Uncle  Henry !  . 

Sometimes  our  course  was  deflected  by  a  swollen  river, 
or  the  wind  had  buried  our  tracks  with  sand.  Some- 
times the  settlement  we  sought  to  guide  us  would  be  com- 
pletely hidden  by  a  dip  in  conformation  of  the  country. 
Sometimes  a  mirage  brought  under  our  very  noses  a 
group  of  buildings  really  miles  away,  with  a  river  be- 
tween us.  Occasionally  a  vicious  chuck-hole  jarred  our 
engine  to  a  standstill.  Once  our  guide  lost  his  bearings, 
and  for  nearly  thirty  miles  we  skipped  lightly  cross- 
country, taking  pot-luck  with  the  mesas  and  washes  and 
sage  thickets  we  encountered,  finding  our  way  only  by  a 
range  of  hills  on  our  west. 

I  have  always  wondered  what  would  have  happened 
if  Toby  and  I  had  attempted  that  journey  alone,  as  we 
first  intended.  This  Navajo  desert  was  the  wildest,  most 
unfrequented  district  we  saw  from  Galveston  to  Boston. 
Only  a  Dunsany  could  give  an  idea  of  its  loneliness,  its 
menace,  its  weird  beauty.  Our  guide  had  the  western 
sense  for  general  direction,  and  had  been  to  Kayenta 
before,  yet  even  he  lost  his  bearings  once.  To  us,  it 
was  a  tiny  spot  easily  obscured  by  the  tremendous  wastes 


THE  FOUR  CORNERS  263 

on  all  sides.  Yet  I  should  like  to  know  if  Toby  and  I 
could  have  managed  it  alone. 

Something  about  the  country,  and  in  the  swart  faces 
of  the  supple  Navajos  on  horseback,  their  flowing  locks 
banded  with  scarlet,  reminded  me  of  old  pictures  of 
Thibetan  plains  and  the  fierce  Mongolian  horsemen  with 
broad  cheek-bones,  slant  eyes  and  piercing  gaze.  Kayenta 
is  a  gateway,  like  Thibet,  to  the  Unknown.  It  is  a  fron- 
tier, perhaps  the  last  real  frontier  in  the  States.  Only 
Piutes  and  Navajos  brave  the  stupendous  Beyond. 

Backed  up  against  oddly-shaped  monoliths  and  orange 
buttes  are  half  a  dozen  small  adobe  houses,  among  them 
the  vine-covered  house  and  store  of  John  Wetherell,  the 
most  famous  citizen  of  Four  Corners.  A  thousand  sheep 
fill  the  air  with  bleatings  like  the  tin  horns  of  a  thousand 
picnickers,  as  they  are  driven  in  from  pasture  by  a  little 
Navajo  maid  on  a  painted  pony,  her  rope  around  her 
saddle  horn.  A  stocky  Indian  in  leather  chaps  gallops 
down  to  the  corral,  driving  two  score  horses  before  him. 
Wagons  come  creaking  in,  laden  with  great  bags  of  wool. 
A  trader  from  the  Hopi  country  or  Chin  Le  rattles  in  to 
spend  a  few  days  on  business,  or  stay  the  night  in  the 
hospitable  adobe  house.  Government  officials,  visiting  or 
stationed  here,  saunter  in  to  chat  or  get  information. 
Groups  of  Navajos  bask  in  the  sun.  Every  passing, 
every  stir  of  life  on  the  great  expanse,  is  an  event  to  be 
talked  over  from  many  angles. 

At  the  Wetherell's,  we  found  homeliness,  a  bountiful 
table,  and  marvel  of  marvel,  the  bath-tub  furthest  from 
an  express  office  in  the  States.  A  few  miles  further  north, 
all  traces  of  civilization  drop  out  of  sight,  and  you  are 
living  the  Day  after  Creation. 


264 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


John  Wetherell,  though  supple  as  a  lank  cowpuncher 
and  fifty  years  young,  is  already  an  "old-timer.'1  Henry 
Ford  put  him  and  his  kind,  as  fine  as  this  country  ever 
bred,  into  the  past  generation,  overnight.  In  his  youth, 
he  and  his  brothers  rode  down  an  unknown  canyon  hunt- 
ing strayed  cattle,  and  discovered  the  cliff  dwellings  of 
Mesa  Verde,  now  the  best  known  of  all.  From  that 
moment,  discovering  cliff  dwellings  became  a  passion 
with  the  Wetherells.  Shard  heaps  yielded  up  their  treas- 
ures to  them,  and  lonely  canyons  disclosed  human  swal- 
lows' nests  hitherto  uncharted  by  the  government.  From 
Colorado,  John  Wetherell  moved  to  Kayenta,  where  he 
gained  the  confidence  of  the  Navajo  as  few  white  men 
have  ever  done. 

In  this  achievement — and  a  difficult  one,  for  the 
Navajo  is  a  wary  soul, — he  was  greatly  helped  by  Mrs. 
Wetherell,  who  possesses  an  almost  uncanny  understand- 
ing and  sympathy  for  the  Navajo  that  make  her  a  more 
trustworthy  Indian  student  than  many  an  ethnologist 
learned  in  the  past,  but  little  versed  in  Indian  nature. 
She  speaks  their  tongue  like  a  native,  and  has  their  con- 
fidence as  they  seldom  give  it  to  any  of  the  white  race. 
They  have  entrusted  to  her  secrets  of  their  tribe,  and 
because  she  keeps  their  secrets,  they  reveal  others  to  her. 

When  the  "flu"  swept  across  the  desert,  it  was  par- 
ticularly virulent  among  the  Southwest  Indians.  They 
died  like  flies  in  their  hogans,  in  carts  on  the  road,  and 
beside  their  flocks.  Babies  hardly  able  to  talk  were 
found,  the  only  living  members  of  their  family.  An 
appalling  number  of  the  tribe  was  lost.  Government 
medical  aid,  never  too  adequate  on  an  Indian  reservation, 
could  not  cope  with  the  overwhelming  attack.  Mission- 


THE  FOUR  CORNERS  265 

aries  forgot  creeds  and  dogma,  and  fought  with  lysol 
and  antiseptic  gauze.  The  "medicine  men"  shut  the  doors 
of  the  hogans,  built  fires  to  smoke  out  the  bad  spirits, 
filled  the  air  with  noises  and  generally  made  medicine 
more  deadly  to  the  patient  than  to  the  devils  that  pos- 
sessed them.  Mrs.  Wetherell  and  her  family  hardly 
slept,  but  rode  back  and  forth  through  the  reservation, 
nursing,  substituting  disinfectants  and  fresh  air  for  "med- 
icine," took  filthy  and  dying  patients  to  her  own  home 
till  it  became  a  hospital,  and  prepared  the  dead  for  burial. 

Parenthetically,  from  this  epidemic  comes  a  piquant 
example  of  the  way  fact  can  always  be  bent  to  substan- 
tiate creed.  Soon  after  the  "flu"  had  reaped  its  harvest, 
a  fatal  distemper  struck  the  horses  and  cattle  on  the 
reservation.  Following  the  human  epidemic,  it  was 
cumulatively  disastrous.  But  the  Navajo  could  explain 
it.  In  the  old  days,  when  a  chief  or  warrior  died,  his 
favorite  horse  was  buried  beside  him,  so  that  he  might 
ride  properly  mounted  into  the  happy  hunting  ground. 
To  the  Indian  mind  it  was  only  logical  that  when  the 
influenza  swept  away  hundreds  of  men,  as  many  horses 
should  go  with  them  to  Paradise. 

When  the  United  States  entered  the  world  war,  Mrs. 
Wetherell  saddled  her  horse,  put  food  and  a  bedding 
roll  on  a  pack-mule,  and  went  far  into  the  interior  of  the 
reservation,  wherever  a  settlement  of  Navajos  could  be 
found.  Most  of  them  had  never  heard  of  the  war.  She 
told  them  of  the  government's  need  for  their  help,  till 
she  aroused  them  from  indifference  to  a  patriotism  the 
more  touching  because  as  a  race  they  had  little  reason  for 
gratitude  toward  a  too-paternal  government.  Out  of 
their  flocks  they  promised  each  a  sheep, — no  mean  gift 


266 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


at  the  war  price.  When  the  "flu"  epidemic  interrupted 
her  work,  she  had  already  raised  $3000  among  a  people 
as  far  from  the  Hindenburg  line,  psychologically,  as  the 
Eskimos  or  Patagonians. 

To  this  lady  of  snapping  black  eyes  and  animated 
laugh  came  rumors  from  her  friends  the  Navajos  of  an 
arch,  so  sacred  that  no  religious  Indian  dared  ride  under 
it  without  first  uttering  the  prayer  specially  designed  for 
that  occasion,  handed  down  from  one  generation  to  the* 
next.  No  white  man,  presumably,  had  reached  the  Rain- 
bow Arch,  a  day  and  a  half  beyond  the  sacred  Navajo 
mountain,  whose  thunder  peak  dominates  the  country 
even  to  the  Great  Canyon.  The  location  was  told  her 
by  a  Navajo,  and  the  first  expedition,  led  by  a  Navajo, 
with  Mr.  Wetherell  as  guide,  reached  Nonnezosche  Boco 
(Bridge  Canyon)  in  August,  1909.  The  party  consisted 
of  Prof.  Byron  Cummings,  then  of  Utah,  now  of  Ari- 
zona University,  Mr.  Douglas,  of  the  government 
Federal  Survey,  James  Rogerson,  and  Neil  Judd,  of  the 
Smithsonian  Institute,  the  restorer  of  the  cliff  ruins  of 
Beta-Takin. 

Already  a  controversy  over  who  really  "discovered" 
the  Rainbow  Bridge  has  been  waged,  and  zestfully  con- 
tested. To  Douglas  went  the  official  recognition,  with 
the  privilege  of  naming  the  arch,  upon  his  own  claim. 
Prof.  Cummings,  while  giving  Douglas  the  official  right 
as  discoverer,  is  the  first  white  man  who  saw  the  bridge. 

Our  own  party,  the  sixteenth  to  visit  the  Bridge  since 
its  discovery,  waited  a  day  at  Kayenta  while  we  equipped. 
Our  letters  had  not  arrived  in  time  to  announce  our 
coming,  and  the  horses  were  still  at  Oljeto,  at  winter 
pasturage,  and  had  to  be  driven  down.  Saddles  needed 


THE  FOUR  CORNERS  267 

mending  and  food  and  bedding  had  to  be  collected. 
While  the  guides  worked,  we  lay  in  the  cool  of  the 
Wetherell's  grassy  lawn, — the  only  grass  in  a  hundred 
miles, — or  bargained  for  Navajo  udead  pawn"  silver  in 
the  trading  store.  The  Navajo  is  a  thriftless  spender, 
and  against  the  day  when  he  can  liquidate  his  debts  by 
selling  his  flocks,  he  pawns  his  cherished  turquoises  and 
wampum.  By  a  government  law,  he  is  given  a  period  of 
grace  to  redeem  his  heirlooms,  after  which  time  they 
go  to  the  trader,  who  may  not  sell  them  for  more  than 
he  paid  the  Indian,  plus  a  small  percentage. 

We  took  clandestine  snapshots  of  the  timid  Indians, 
who  lost  their  timidity  when  we  were  the  focus  of  their 
curious  eyes  and  guttural  comments.  Indian  speech  is 
always  called  guttural;  the  Navajo  tongue  really  deserves 
the  adjective.  The  Navajo  not  only  swallows  his  words, 
but  sounds  as  if  he  did  not  like  the  taste  of  them.  They 
had  a  favorite  trick  of  looking  our  party  over,  while  one 
of  them  expressed  in  a  few  well  chosen  consonants  a 
category  of  our  defects,  which  set  the  observers  into 
guffaws  and  shrieks  of  laughter.  Yet  they  say  the  Indian 
has  no  sense  of  humor. 

One  old  crone  in  a  garnet  velvet  jacket  sat  in  the 
doorway  of  the  store,  and  with  contempt  looked  us  three 
women  over  in  our  khaki  riding  breeches  and  coats. 
Then  she  sneered  in  Navajo  through  her  missing  front 
teeth,  "Do  these  women  think  they  are  men?" 

We  had  forgotten  the  warning  given  us  at  Chin  Le  to 
wear  skirts,  so  as  not  to  outrage  the  Navajo  sense  of 
modesty.  This  in  a  land  where  suffrage  never  needed 
an  Anthony  amendment, — where  the  son,  from  antiquity, 
has  taken  his  mother's  name,  where  the  man  does  the 


268 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


indoor  task  of  weaving  while  the  woman  devotes  herself 
to  the  larger  business  of  tending  flocks,  and  property 
becomes  the  woman's  at  marriage,  so  that  when  she 
divorces  her  husband,  as  she  may  for  any  or  no  reason 
at  a  moment's  warning,  he  is  obliged  to  walk  out  of  his 
— I  mean  her — hogan,  wearing  only  what  he  had  on  his 
wedding  morn.  So  far  as  I  could  learn,  the  man  has 
only  one  privilege, — that  after  marriage,  he  must  never 
see  his  mother-in-law.  uNas-ja  !"  they  cry  (''Become  an 
owl;"  i.  e.,  look  blind)  when  the  two  are  in  danger  of 
meeting. 

Yet  this  old  crone,  who  had  so  many  privileges,  gave 
us  and  our  outrageous  costumes  such  a  look  as  Queen 
Victoria  might  have  given  Salome  at  the  close  of  her 
dance  of  the  seven  veils.  Wearing  the  breeks  in  spirit, 
she  could  make  a  point  of  forswearing  them  in  the  flesh. 

The  handsome  Navajo  lads  who  slouched  over  the 
huge  bags  of  wool  before  the  trading  store  were  more 
tolerant.  The  boldest  let  us  photograph  them,  giggling 
as  they  posed,  and  were  pleased  when  we  admired  the 
exquisite  turquoise  and  silver  bracelets  on  their  brown 
arms.  They  were  lithe  and  full  of  sinewy  strength  and 
steely  grace,  lounging  in  their  gay  velvet  jackets  and 
chaparrals. 

And  all  through  the  day,  regardless  of  the  burning- 
glass  heat  of  the  sun,  Murray  and  the  Golfer,  to  the 
delight  and  amusement  of  the  whole  post,  red  and  white, 
patiently  improved  their  drive  by  lofting  over  the  wind- 
mill which  Roosevelt  had  instituted  for  the  Navajos. 
Three  brown  children  on  horseback  acted  as  caddies. 
Mr.  Wetherell  quizzically  watched  a  shot  go  wild  over 
the  seventy  foot  windmill. 


THE  FOUR  CORNERS  269 

"Think  you're  going  to  put  a  ball  over  the  Bridge?" 
"I'm  going  to  try  to,"  said  the  Golfer  modestly. 
He  chuckled.     "Wait  till  you  see  it,  young  fellow." 
In  answer,  the  Golfer  sent  up  a  ball  that  clove  the 
heavens  in  twain.     And  then  the  entire  population  of 
Kayenta  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  on  their  knees,  hunting 
in  the  sage-brush. 


CHAPTER  XX 

RAINBOW  BRIDGE 

IT  was  as  exciting  as  a  well-fought  football  game  to 
watch  the  horses,  when  at  last  they  straggled  down 
from  Oljeto,  to  be  cajoled  and  subsequently  roped.  Hav- 
ing spent  the  winter  away  from  humans,  they  had  for- 
gotten our  self-willed  ways,  and  developed  wills  of  their 
own.  Though  bony  from  a  hard  winter,  they  had  plenty 
of  fight  left  in  their  mud-caked  hides.  We  all  sat  on 
the  corral  fence  and  joyfully  watched  a  Navajo  herder 
tobogganned  over  rocks  and  cactus,  at  the  end  of  a  taut 
rope,  while  an  old  white  horse,  pink  from  a  bath  in  the 
creek,  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  laughed,  as  he  kept 
the  rope  humming.  The  Navajo  must  have  thanked 
fate  for  his  leather  chaps,  which  smoked  with  the  fric- 
tion. The  horses  were  a  gamble.  Our  unexpected  ar- 
rival left  no  time  for  them  to  be  fed  and  hardened  for 
the  trip.  We  had  to  take  them  as  they  were.  From  the 
fence  we  made  bids  for  our  choice.  Our  amateur  judg- 
ments were  received  with  respectful  attention.  Toby 
wanted  a  little  horse  with  flat  sides  and  an  easy  trot.  I 
asked  for  the  biggest  horse  they  had,  knowing  from 
former  experience  that  on  a  long,  hard  trip  a  big  horse 
is  less  likely  to  tire,  and  a  long  trot  is  easier  on  the  rider. 
Martha  wanted  a  pony  with  a  lope,  but,  speechless  with 
disgust,  was  given  a  little  white  mule  called  Annie.  She 

broke  off  a  branch  of  yucca  blossom  for  a  whip,  and  with 

270 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  271 

this  held  upright  and  her  demure  look,  she  reminded  us 
of  the  popular  picture  of  the  Holy  Child  riding  to 
Jerusalem. 

At  about  four  in  the  afternoon, — an  outrageous  hour, 
—we  started  across  a  long  draw  and  over  flat  lands,  not 
especially  interesting,  except  for  the  wealth  of  wild 
flowers  beneath  us.  Our  party  was  imposing,  with  our 
two  guides  and  two  helpers.  Our  five  pack  horses  ambled 
discontentedly  along  as  pack  animals  will  do,  as  if  they 
had  a  grudge  against  somebody  and  meant  when  the 
opportunity  came  to  release  it.  Our  Navajo  who  looked 
after  the  horses  was  named  Hostein  Chee,  which  is  to 
say,  Red  Man.  He  was  not  so  named  for  his  race,  but 
because,  for  some  mysterious  reason  that  may  or  may 
not  have  involved  Mrs.  Hostein  Chee  in  malicioifs  gos- 
sip, like  Sally  in  the  cowboy  ballad  he  "had  a  baby,  and 
the  baby  had  red  hair." 

Hostein  Chee  rode  his  horse  like  a  centaur.  His  rid- 
ing costume  was  moccasins,  overalls,  an  old  sack  coat, 
and  a  mangy  fur  cap  with  a  band  of  quarters  and  dimes, 
his  most  cherished  possession.  He  wore  an  armlet  of 
turquoise  and  mellow  carved  silver.  The  Navajos  of 
former  days  used  these  ornaments  on  their  left  wrist  to 
steady  their  arrows  as  they  aimed  them  at  Utes  or 
Apaches,  but  those  they  make  today  with  raised  designs 
and  encrusted  gems  are  only  for  display. 

Once  we  passed  a  small  camp  of  Navajos,  and  at  a 
word  from  Mr.  Wetherell,  Hostein  Chee  rode  off,  and 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  rejoined  us  with  a  dressed 
sheep  hanging  to  his  saddle  horn.  A  sharp  knife  is  slung 
from  the  belt  of  all  Navajo  shepherdesses,  and  their 
dexterity  in  handling  it  is  marvellous. 


272 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


Ahead  of  us  the  pack  horses  jogged  reluctantly,  as  if 
they  knew  they  were  in  for  it.  The  trail  we  were  to  make 
has  the  reputation  of  being  difficult  if  not  dangerous  in 
its  rough  footing,  widely  separated  camps  and  lack  of 
water.  Yet  the  beginning  was  uneventful  enough.  For 
a  dozen  miles  we  wound  through  Marsh  Pass,  with  the 
typical  desert  scenery  of  hot,  burnt  plains,  rolling  hills 
and  low  cliffs,  and  dry  river  beds.  Then  we  turned  at 
right  angles  into  Segi,  or  Lake  Canyon,  winding  east  to 
west  between  bright  pink  sandstone  bluffs,  outlined  in 
whimsical  shapes  against  a  clear  gold  sky.  The  green, 
grassy  valley  abounded  in  the  sweet  flowers  of  the  desert, 
a  strange  contrast  to  the  bare,  stark  and  forbidding 
rocks  hemming  it  in. 

We  persuaded  our  horses  to  a  trot,  for  we  still  had 
miles  to  go.  At  twilight,  when  the  heat  suddenly  changed 
to  a  frosty  cool,  we  turned  into  a  side  canyon  whose  nar- 
row walls  rose  higher  as  we  progressed.  The  horses 
slipped  and  tumbled  in  the  dark.  Unexpectedly,  Toby 
and  I  found  ourselves  struggling  alone  up  a  path  which 
became  more  precarious  every  minute.  Our  horses 
finally  refused  to  advance,  and  dismounting,  we  saw  that 
we  had  mistaken  for  a  trail  a  blind  shelf  of  the  bank 
high  above  the  stream.  The  ledge  narrowed  till  there 
was  scarcely  room  to  turn  around;  the  horses'  feet  slipped 
among  the  loose  boulders.  We  could  see  little  but  the 
blazing  stars  overhead.  We  could  hear  nothing;  our 
party  had  ridden  far  ahead  without  missing  us.  At  last 
a  faint  call  drifted  to  us,  and  soon  a  guide  appeared  to 
our  rescue.  Turning  down  the  stream-bed  we  made  our 
way  after  him  to  camp,  a  mile  further,  where  the  others 
were  already  dismounted,  and  the  pack  unloaded. 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  273 

Tired  and  ravenous,  we  rested  on  our  saddles  while 
the  horses  strayed  off,  munching  the  fine,  sweet  grass.  If 
Mr.  Wetherell  was  tired  he  showed  no  sign,  though  since 
morning  he  had  been  busy.  While  the  other  men  un- 
packed bedding  and  arranged  camp,  he  dug  a  deep  pit, 
placing  burning  logs  within.  The  pit  finished,  he  buried 
the  mutton  that  a  few  hours  ago  was  a  happy  sheep,  and 
covered  it  lightly.  Before  we  could  believe  it  possible, 
it  was  cooked.  Steaming  and  crisp  it  was  sliced  and 
distributed,  and  the  mutton  which  had  been  a  sheep 
became  as  rapidly  a  remnant. 

The  day  had  been  sultry,  but  we  were  glad  now  of  the 
roaring  fire.  It  sent  a  glare  on  the  face  of  the  red  cliffs 
on  the  opposite  bank,  not  unlike  El  Capitan  of  Yosemite 
in  contour.  We  looked  and  forgot  them  again,  to  look 
again  and  be  surprised  to  see  them  in  place  of  the  sky. 
Not  till  we  threw  our  heads  far  back  could  we  see  their 
edge.  The  pleasant  sound  of  the  little  stream  came  inces- 
santly from  below.  His  silver  glittering  in  the  firelight, 
Hostein  Chee  sat  smoking  a  cigarette,  like  a  Buddha 
breathing  incense.  I  went  to  him,  and  tried  to  bargain 
my  Ingersoll  wrist-watch  for  his  armlet.  I  let  him  hear 
it  tick. 

uWah-Wah-Tay-See,  Little  Firefly,"  I  said,  in  the 
Indian  language  of  the  poet,  pointing  out  the  radium 
hands.  "Light  me  with  your  little  candle.  I  give  you 
this?" 

Hostein  Chee  accepted  it  with  a  child-like  smile. 

"And  you  give  me  this?"  I  said,  touching  his  armlet. 

"No  good,"  said  Hostein  Chee,  drawing  back  in  alarm. 
But  I  had  difficulty  in  getting  my  watch  back.  Each 
night  of  the  trip  thereafter,  we  went  through  the  same 


274  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

game,  the  Red  Man  accepting  my  watch  with  gratifica- 
tion, but  showing  the  same  surprised  obstinacy  when  I 
tried  to  take  the  armlet,  and  polite  regret  at  having  to 
return  my  watch.  In  the  end,  he  lost  the  name  bestowed 
on  him  by  a  derisive  community,  and  became  Wah-Wah- 
Tay-See  for  the  rest  of  the  trip. 

Sleep  that  night  was  more  romantically  staged  than 
under  ordinary  circumstances.  The  cold,  glacial  tang  of 
high  altitude  nipped  us  pleasantly.  The  cliffs  shut  us  in, 
not  forbiddingly  but  protectingly.  The  firelight  was  cozy 
and  homelike.  We  made  a  little  oasis  of  human  com- 
panionship in  this  wide  primeval  solitude,  but  our 
spirits  were  high  enough  not  to  feel  our  isolation. 
Rather,  we  had  an  increased  elation  and  sense  of  free- 
dom. What  myriads  of  people,  jostling  each  other 
every  day,  never  get  more  than  a  few  feet  away  from 
their  kind!  We  had  a  sense  of  courage  toward  life 
new  to  us  all.  The  mere  fact  of  our  remoteness  helped 
us  shake  off  layers  and  layers  of  other  people's  person- 
ality, which  we  had  falsely  regarded  as  our  own 
and  showed  us  new  selves  undreamed  of.  We  laugh,  at 
the  movies,  at  the  frequency  with  which  the  hero  goes 
uout  there,  away  from  all  this"  to  "find  himself."  Yet  I 
think  everyone  should,  once  in  a  while,  leave  routine  and 
safety  behind,  with  water  that  runs  from  faucets,  beds 
under  roofs,  and  food  coming  daily  from  baker  and 
grocer,  and  policemen  on  every  corner.  Too  much 
security  stales  the  best  in  us. 

It  seemed  the  middle  of  the  night  when  we  were 
wakened  by  the  sound  of  galloping  hoofs.  From  our  tent 
window,  we  saw  the  morning  sky  painting  an  orange  band 
against  the  cliffs,  and  Hostein  Chee  driving  the  outfit  up 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  275 

the  ravine.  On  his  pony's  saddle  hung  the  carcass  of  a 
second  sheep,  for  from  today  we  were  to  leave  fresh 
meat  behind  us.  Even  the  Navajos  and  Piutes  seldom 
wander  far  into  this  hinterland  of  nowhere.  We  snatched 
a  few  minutes  more  of  sleep,  guiltily,  while  through  our 
door  came  sounds  of  preparation  for  breakfast.  We 
shivered  and  piled  on  more  coats.  At  last  the  crackle 
of  the  fire  promised  warmth;  we  crawled  out,  washed  in 
the  stream,  and  found  breakfast  ready  and  the  packers 
impatiently  waiting  for  tents  and  gunnysacks. 

"Look,"  said  somebody,  pointing.  Mr.  Wetherell 
smiled.  To  our  right,  sheltering  us  with  its  six  hundred 
feet  of  red  wall  rose  a  cliff,  curved  half-way  up  like  an 
inverted  bowl,  and  blackened  with  streaks  where  water 
had  once  run.  The  same  water  had  carved  the  bowl, 
and  had  it  worked  awhile  longer  it  would  have  bored 
through  the  cliff  and  made  a  natural  bridge.  As  it  was, 
it  formed  a  simple  but  perfect  shelter  for  a  large  cliff 
city,  so  completely  the  color  of  the  cliff  that  but  for  the 
black  window  holes,  we  should  never  have  found  them 
for  ourselves. 

With  all  the  joy  of  discoverers  we  speedily  climbed 
the  precipitous  bank  to  the  narrow  shelf  on  which  the 
ancient  city  was  built.  Strung  together  on  their  precari- 
ous ledge  like  beads  on  a  necklace  were  rows  of  rooms, 
compared  to  which  a  kitchenette  in  a  New  York  apart- 
ment would  be  spacious.  Above  them  were  second  and 
third  stories,  the  ceilings  long  ago  fallen,  and  only  a  few 
decayed  pinon  vegas  to  show  where  they  had  been.  On 
one  building  the  tumbled  masonry  exposed  a  framework 
of  willow  wattles.  A  thousand  years  before,  perhaps, 
some  Indian  had  cut  the  saplings  fresh  from  the  brook 


276  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

where  we  had  just  bathed.  The  great  stone  slabs  of  the 
altars  and  the  cedar  beams  must  have  been  dragged  up 
from  below, — a  stupendous  work  of  patient  human  ants. 
In  the  fine,  crumbly  floor  dust,  we  found  innumerable  bits 
of  pottery,  painted  in  the  early  red,  black  and  white,  and 
fragments  of  the  still  earlier  thumb-nail.  Toby  tirelessly 
collected  armfuls  of  them,  and  tied  them  in  bandana 
handkerchiefs.  The  place  had  hardly  been  excavated. 
We  pawed  the  dust,  each  believing  we  might  discover 
some  souvenir  the  Smithsonian  would  envy  us,  and 
ethnologists  refer  to  wistfully  in  their  reports,  yet  some- 
how, we  did  not.  But  many  interesting  things  came  to 
light,  feathers  twisted  together  into  ropes,  obsidian 
arrow-heads,  sticks  notched  by  a  stone  adze,  grinding 
stones  such  as  the  Hopis  use  today,  and  the  altar  stones 
found  in  each  apartment.  No  wonder  their  builders  wor- 
shipped, living  so  near  Heaven. 

These  ruins,  called  Beta-Takin,  or  "Hillside  House" 
were  well  named.  Above  was  only  the  deep  blue  sky, 
framed  in  the  smooth  red  arch  that  roofed  these  swal- 
lows' nests.  Below  were  steep  slopes  of  crumbling  sand- 
stone, the  glowing  flowers  near  the  river,  and  beyond, 
castellated  peaks  of  bold  outline.  I  climbed  with  caution 
to  the  furthest  tip  of  the  crescent  town,  and  my  traitor 
knees  began  to  crumple  like  paper.  I  had  suddenly  be- 
gun to  wonder,  at  the  wrong  moment,  whether  any  cliff 
dwelling  babies  had  ever  fallen  over  that  edge. 

Hostein  Chee  was  finishing  his  last  diamond  hitch 
when  we  returned  to  camp.  Our  horses  were  changed; 
some  who  yesterday  had  been  mere  pack  animals  were 
promoted  to  the  rank  of  saddle  horses.  The  Golfer  had 
drawn  a  powerful  black  mule,  and  had  mounted  him 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  277 

jauntily.  The  Golfer  was  new  to  horses,  but  anyone 
could  ride  a  mule.  Just  then,  as  he  bent  to  adjust  a 
stirrup,  the  familiar  jingle  of  the  departing  pack  and  the 
music  of  Hostein  Chee's  alien  profanity  came  to  those 
long  ears.  Forgetting  his  recent  rise  in  station,  the  mule 
leaped  eagerly  forward  to  join  his  mates.  Briar  and 
bush  did  not  stop  the  pair ;  they  tore  downhill  over  boul- 
ders and  through  thickets.  Young  alders  slapped  the 
Golfer  in  the  face,  but  he  hung  on  until  the  mule,  in 
despair  at  seeing  demure  Annie  trot  out  of  his  vision, 
took  the  stream  at  a  leap.  At  that  moment,  those  who 
were  ahead  say  that  the  black  mule  caught  up  with  Annie. 

The  Golfer  had  lost  interest  in  the  amorous  pursuit, 
and  was  sitting  up  picking  the  cactus  thorns  out  of  him- 
self when  we  arrived. 

"What  happened?"  we  asked,  in  the  way  people  will 
ask  questions. 

"I'd  thought  I'd  get  off,"  answered  the  Golfer. 

But  thereafter,  he  and  the  black  mule  became  firm,  if 
not  fast  companions. 

The  gorge  we  had  passed  through  in  the  dark  we 
retraced  to  find  full  of  color.  Great  aspens  bordered  the 
heights,  while  the  river  bed  was  full  of  flowers.  As  we 
came  to  the  opening  the  canyon  broadened,  and  the  red- 
dish cliffs  became  higher  and  took  on  strange  shapes  of 
beasts  and  humans.  A  whole  herd  of  elephants  carved 
in  the  sandstone  seemed  guarding  the  entrance  into  Segi 
canyon,  meticulously  complete,  even  to  white  tusks, 
wrinkled  trunks  and  little  eyes,  as  if  these  had  been  the 
freehand  plans  the  Creator  of  elephants  had  sketched  on 
the  wall  before  he  began  to  work  them  out  according  to 
blue-print. 


278 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


We  worked  through  and  across  Segi  canyon  until  we 
stood  on  a  ledge  of  rock,  and  looked  over  miles  of  rose, 
purple  and  stormy  blue,  toward  corrugated  walls  high 
enough  to  fence  in  the  world.  And  then  began  a  descent 
of  two  hours,  while  the  sun  blazed  up  in  this  shadeless 
waste  of  rocks.  We  scrambled  over  boulders  bigger 
than  our  horses,  dragging  the  reluctant  animals  after  us 
on  the  rein,  ready  to  dodge  quickly  if  they  slipped.  A 
few  lizards  glided  under  cover  as  we  advanced,  the  only 
living  creatures  in  sight,  though  from  the  heights  came 
occasionally  the  melancholy  story  of  a  ring-dove  or  a 
hoot-owl.  The  trail  clung  to  sheer  walls,  its  switchbacks 
rougher  and  at  times  far  steeper  than  the  Grand  Canyon 
trails.  Since  its  discovery  ten  years  ago,  little  has  been 
done  to  improve  it,  necessarily,  because  of  its  extreme 
length  and  the  fact  that  it  is  not  situated  in  a  national 
park.  For  these  reasons,  it  will  probably  never  lose  its 
primitive  wildness. 

We  lunched  under  a  few  spreading  junipers,  where 
water  in  muddy  rock  basins  was  to  be  found.  The  sun 
was  low  when  we  started  again,  for  in  that  country  it 
does  not  pay  to  ride  through  the  heat  of  mid-day.  The 
region,  broken  no  longer  by  gigantic  canyons,  softened  to 
a  dull  monotony  of  sage  and  rolling  hills.  Camp  was 
already  made,  when  at  evening  we  rode  into  a  small, 
semi-enclosed  valley  at  a  short  distance  from  a  second 
cliff-town,  under  an  arched  recess  of  rock  high  above  us. 
While  the  men  unpacked,  Martha,  Toby  and  I  found 
a  tiny  pool  yielding  a  basin  full  of  water,  but  ice-cold, 
it  soothed  our  weary  bodies  wonderfully.  About  all  we 
need  for  our  physical  selves  in  this  world  is  a  bath  after 
dust  and  heat,  food  after  hunger,  sleep  after  weariness, 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  279 

warmth  after  cold,  and  freedom  from  worry, — and  camp 
life  completely  satisfies  for  a  time,  because  these  simple 
desires  are  both  intensely  stimulated  and  gratified.  Our 
campfire  warmed  the  chill  night  air,  and  gave  us  an  hour's 
relaxation  and  gayety.  But  sleep  could  not  be  held  off 
long,  and  at  nine,  we  all  retired  to  our  tents  under  a 
thicket  of  junipers. 

These  cliff  dwellings  yielded  Toby  magnificent  speci- 
mens. Behind  camp  lay  a  small  hill  mostly  of  pottery 
fragments.  She  attacked  it  and  single  handed  soon  re- 
duced it  to  a  hummock.  The  bandana  would  hold  no 
more,  and  her  sweater  and  pea  jacket  bulged  at  the 
pockets,  and  when  I  opened  our  pack  I  found  crumbled 
pottery  mingling  with  our  toothbrushes. 

The  next  day  brought  us  into  more  dramatic  scenery. 
Once  more  we  toiled  up  and  up  through  an  unimaginably 
vast  and  lonely  country,  whose  barrenness  of  rock  and 
sage  was  softened  by  a  wilderness  of  flowers,  of  new  and 
strange  varieties.  The  cactus  blossoms,  most  brilliant 
and  fragile  of  desert  flowers,  with  the  texture  of  the 
poppy  and  the  outline  of  the  wild  rose,  ranged  from  the 
most  subtle  tones  of  golden  brown,  tea  rose  color  and 
faded  reds  to  flaming,  uncompromising  rainbow  hues. 
We  passed  a  bush  with  white  waxen  flowers  like  apple 
blossoms,  called  Fendler's  Rod,  and  another  with  ma- 
hogany branches,  smooth  to  feel,  with  fragrant  yellow 
bloom;  blue  larkspur  in  profusion,  the  Indian  paint- 
brush in  every  shade  from  scarlet  through  pink  and  cerise 
to  orange  and  yellow.  Wild  hyacinths  began  to  appear 
in  the  cooler,  tenderer  shades  of  early  spring,  and  a  new 
flower,  very  lovely,  called  penstaces,  in  pink  and  purple. 


280  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

The  mariposa  lily  of  southern  Arizona  appeared  here  as 
waxy  cream  and  twice  as  large  as  we  had  ever  seen  it. 

Once  out  of  Piute  Canyon,  we  camped  at  the  Tanks, 
a  series  of  waterholes  worn  in  a  dry  river  bed  of  solid 
rock.  A  group  of  pinons  sheltered  our  camp,  but  before 
the  tents  were  fairly  up  a  downpour  of  rain  drove  us 
wet  and  uncomfortable  to  huddle  together  in  one  tent. 
The  horses  slanted  into  the  driving  storm  with  drooping 
heads  and  limp  haunches.  Saddles  and  provisions  were 
hastily  covered  with  Navajo  rugs.  Through  it  all  Hos- 
tein  Chee  in  overalls  and  drenched  sack  coat  moved 
about  his  business  with  neither  joy  nor  sorrow.  He 
showed  no  animation  until  over  the  great  roaring  fire 
our  supper  was  cooked,  and  he  could  once  more,  with 
bland  and  innocent  smile  shake  the  bag  of  sugar  into  his 
coffee,  murmuring  "Sooga." 

The  sheep  killed  by  the  Navajos  had  not  died  in  vain. 
Again  it  formed  the  staple  of  our  meal.  With  each 
appearance  it  seemed  to  lose  some  of  its  resiliency. 
Mutton,  most  unimaginative  of  meats,  with  the  rain 
drizzling  on  it  was  less  inviting  than  ever.  Nor  was  it 
improved  by  being  set  down  on  the  ground,  where  a 
shower  of  sand  was  unwittingly  shaken  into  it  by  each 
person  who  went  to  the  fire  to  fill  his  tin  plate.  Still  we 
chewed  on,  and  in  the  end  besides  the  exercise,  got  a 
little  nourishment.  We  did  not  care;  we  wanted  to  eat, 
and  get  back  to  our  tents  out  of  the  downpour.  It  was 
one  of  those  days  all  campers  know  and  enjoy — after- 
ward. 

I  woke  toward  morning  and  peered  through  the  tent 
window  to  see  dawn  banding  the  windy  sky.  Against  its 
dramatic  light,  stood  Hostein  Chee,  the  Red  Man,  beside 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  281 

a  campfire  blazing  shoulder  high.  His  body  slanting 
back,  his  face  frozen  to  exalted  calm,  he  gazed  fixedly  at 
the  glory  of  the  sky.  His  inscrutable  nature  seemed 
touched  and  wakened.  I  called  softly  to  Toby. 
"Look — he  is  saying  a  prayer  to  the  dawn!" 
We  looked  reverently.  The  white  men  were  sleeping, 
but  the  Indian  kept  his  vigil.  He  raised  both  arms  above 
his  head,  removed  his  hat, — and  scratched  vigorously. 
This  done,  he  repeated  the  process  wherever  he  felt  the 
need.  Toby's  awed  interest  turned  to  mirth,  mainly  at 
my  expense.  Yet  even  engaged  in  so  primitive  a  gesture 
as  scratching,  Wah-W'ah  invested  it  with  the  stately  grace 
we  noticed  in  his  every  move.  Though  I  knew  I  should 
not,  I  watched  him  make  his  toilet,  fascinated.  He 
removed  the  trousers  he  slept  in,  and  in  which  we  daily 
saw  him  accoutred,  revealing  (I  had  turned  away  in 
the  interim)  an  under  pair,  similarly  tailored,  of  a  large 
black  and  red  checked  flannel.  He  scratched  thoroughly, 
took  off  his  vest,  scratched,  and  then  dressed.  Then  he 
blew  his  nose  as  Adam  and  Eve  must  have,  and  shouted 
"De-jiss-je !" 

That,  as  nearly  as  I  can  spell  it,  is  the  only  Navajo 
any  of  us  managed  to  learn.  Mr.  Wetherell  so  fre- 
quently addressed  Hostein  this  way  that  we  thought  it 
was  his  name,  and  called  him  by  it,  even  after  we  learned 
that  it  meant  "Light  a  fire."  The  little  jest  always 
brought  a  silent  smile  to  the  face  of  the  Navajo,  and  he 
would  mimic  our  mimicry.  We  christened  an  unnamed 
canyon  for  him  De-jiss-je  Boco,  where  we  lunched  at 
noon,  and  cached  part  of  the  pack  till  the  return  trip. 
Here  was  a  delicious  stream,  running  between  sandstone 
rocks,  into  which  horses  and  all  put  our  heads  and 


282  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

drank.  The  sun  steamed  upon  the  land  of  rocks  until 
the  heat  made  us  droop,  and  our  horses,  poor  beasts, 
were  rapidly  wearing  down  from  the  trail.  Only 
pinons,  with  hardy  roots  gripping  the  red  wastes  of  rock, 
and  thorny  cactus,  grew  in  this  vast  echo-land.  Rocks ! 
I  could  not  have  believed  there  were  so  many  in  the 
universe.  It  looked  like  the  Pit  out  of  which  the  gods 
had  taken  material  to  build  the  world,  or  the  abyss  where 
they  threw  the  remnants  afterward. 

For  the  first  time  we  saw  purple  sage,  whose  scent  is 
indescribably  sweet.  This  rare  variety  is  found  only  in 
this  region.  Its  leaf  is  dark  green  and  differently  shaped 
from  ordinary  sage.  We  were  nearing  great  Navajo, 
whose  bare  stark  head  topped  all  other  hills  from  Mt. 
Henry  in  Utah  to  the  San  Francisco  peaks  in  the  south. 
Soon  we  were  in  the  lee  of  it,  climbing  beside  it,  but 
closer  and  closer  to  its  heights. 

De-jiss-je  looked  at  the  cloudless  sky,  and  suggested  it 
might  rain.  To  my  surprise  the  others  agreed.  The  sky 
was  velvet  blue  and  the  air  as  dry  and  sparkling  as  ever. 
Yet  we  had  hardly  rounded  the  shoulder  of  Navajo 
when  thick,  broken  clouds  shrouded  it  in  terrible  gran- 
deur, and  the  wind  swirled  them  against  that  rocky 
mass.  The  storm  broke  immediately  in  wildest  fury, 
and  we  saw  the  giant  in  its  proper  surroundings,  storm 
wrapped  and  terrible.  I  never  saw  a  more  majestic 
storm  in  more  titanic  setting.  Low  waves  of  prairie, 
stretching  for  miles,  were  broken  here  and  there  into 
strange  monoliths  and  grotesque  needles,  around  which 
the  lightning  played  sharp  and  short  as  a  whip  snapping, 
— rose-colored,  deep  green.  The  sky  turned  purple-blue, 
cut  and  slashed  by  gashes  of  blinding  white.  Grayed  by 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  TRAIL. 
Near  Navajo  Mountain,  whose  bare,  stark  head  topped  all  other  hills. 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  283 

sheets  of  rain,  the  red  rocks  took  on  a  sulphurous  look. 
Far  off  to  our  right  a  rainbow  canyon  opened,  almost  as 
vast  and  quite  as  brilliant  as  the  Grand  Canyon  of 
Colorado,  reaching  to  the  horizon. 

Though  the  storm  cracked  above  our  heads,  it  was 
too  beautiful  and  too  awful  to  fear.  We  whipped  on 
our  slickers.  In  a  second  they  were  drenched,  and 
streams  were  running  to  our  saddles  and  soaking  us. 
Toby,  protecting  her  camera  with  one  hand,  and  her 
person  from  the  banging  of  a  bag  of  pottery,  wearing 
the  slicker  the  cow  had  chewed  short,  was  quickly 
drenched,  and  rode  in  dejected  silence.  Ahead,  the 
helper,  whose  thin  shirt  streamed  rivers,  shouted  in  glee, 
and  drove  on  the  stumbling  pack-beasts  with  variegated 
profanity.  The  guides  took  the  onslaught  of  the  storm 
unmoved,  dripping  like  male  Naiads.  Sometimes  the 
thunder  smashed  so  near  it  seemed  as  if  our  horses  had 
been  struck,  sometimes  it  cracked  on  the  cliffs  beside  us. 

The  scenery  became  increasingly  dramatic.  We  were 
out  of  the  pinon,  and  riding  through  nothing  but  granite 
and  sandstone.  An  hour  passed,  while  we  huddled  un- 
comfortably, fearing  to  move  lest  a  rivulet  find  a  new 
and  hitherto  unwet  channel  on  our  bodies.  Then  as 
suddenly  as  it  began  the  storm  ceased,  and  just  in  time, 
for  we  were  nearing  the  crux  of  the  trail, — Bald  Rock. 
Even  Roosevelt  described  this  pass  as  dangerous.  The 
storm  had  increased  the  danger.  Five  minutes  more  of 
rain,  and  the  rocks  would  have  been  too  slippery  to  cross ; 
as  it  was,  we  barely  kept  our  footing. 

Bald  Rock  is  a  huge  dome  of  solid  granite,  bordering 
a  precipice  several  hundred  feet  deep,  overlooking 
tangled  and  twisted  crags.  Crossing  it  was  like  crossing 


284 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


the  surface  of  an  inverted  bowl.  Worn  smooth  by  ero- 
sion, the  only  semblance  of  foothold  it  offered  was  a 
seam  a  few  inches  wide  near  the  edge.  With  the  dome 
polished  by  rain,  it  was  not  easy  to  keep  both  footing  and 
nerve.  Our  tendency  was  to  move  cautiously,  when  the 
safest  way  was  at  a  jog  trot,  though  the  mental  hazard  of 
the  drop  at  the  edge  made  the  latter  course  hard.  Even 
the  bronchos  shared  our  caution.  We  naturally  had  dis- 
mounted, though  the  intrepid  Hostein  Chee  rode  his 
horse  part  way  across.  The  horses  dug  their  hoofs  in 
hard,  and  even  then  they  slipped  and  scrambled  about 
helplessly.  One  balked,  and  another  fell  several  feet. 
For  a  moment  it  looked  as  if  his  bones  would  be  left  to 
whiten  in  the  chasm  below,  but  goaded  by  the  Navajo 
he  regained  his  feet,  and,  trembling,  crossed  safely. 

Beyond  came  a  still  worse  spot, — a  narrow  ledge,  with 
cliffs  on  one  side  shouldering  one  toward  the  edge.  Here 
the  horses  were  halted  until  blankets  and  armfuls  of  grass 
could  be  placed  along  the  slanting  ledge.  In  all,  we  were 
half  an  hour  passing  Bald  Rock.  Though  this  is  the 
worst  bit  of  trail  on  the  way  to  the  Bridge,  and  enough 
to  give  one  a  little  thrill,  there  is  nothing  to  dread  under 
ordinary  conditions.  Nevertheless,  I  should  not  like  to 
cross  Bald  Rock  after  dark. 

To  our  left,  beyond  masses  of  smooth,  marvelously 
contorted  sandstone  rose  white  cliffs,  seared  and  ghostly, 
and  beyond  them,  far  reaches  of  mountain,  with  Navajo 
king  of  all.  Clouds  and  mist  encircled  its  slopes,  but 
the  peak  rose  clear  above  them  into  a  thunderous  sky. 
We  kept  the  grand  old  mountain  in  sight  for  several 
miles,  then  dipped  into  a  small  and  lovely  valley,  full  of 
flowers  and  watered  by  a  winding  stream.  This  was 


CROSSING  BALD  ROCK,   ON  RAINBOW  BRIDGE   TRAIL. 
The  worst  bit  of  trail  on  the  way  to  the  bridge. 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  285 

Surprise  Valley,  famous  in  the  movies  as  the  scene  of  a 
thrilling  tale  of  a  man  and  woman  walled  in  for  years  by 
one  boulder  pushed  to  block  the  only  entrance.  It  is  a 
pity  to  spoil  the  thrill,  but  I  could  not  see  how  any  one 
boulder,  however  large,  could  block  all  exit  from  this 
valley.  Nevertheless  its  seclusion  and  unexpectedness 
make  it  a  delight.  The  inevitable  cliffs  surround  it  in  a 
red  circle,  and  once  within,  a  stranger  could  look  for 
hours  for  the  trail  out. 

Thus  far,  the  trail  had  been  not  only  beautiful,  but 
climacteric,  and  from  this  point  to  the  great  arch  it  was 
entirely  outside  one's  experience.  We  had  to  recreate  our 
sense  of  proportions  to  fit  the  gigantic  land.  I  felt  as  if  I 
had  been  shipwrecked  on  the  moon.  We  who  started 
feeling  fairly  important  and  self-satisfied  and  had  become 
daily  more  insignificant,  were  mere  specks  in  a  landscape 
carved  out  by  giants, — a  landscape  of  sculptors,  done  by 
some  Rodin  of  the  gods,  who  had  massed  and  hurled 
mountains  of  rock  about,  twisted  them  in  a  thousand  fan- 
tastic figures,  as  if  they  had  been  mere  handfuls  of  clay. 
Against  the  prodigious  canyons  down  which  our  tired 
beasts  slowly  carried  us,  we  were  too  small  to  be  seen. 
Nonnezoche  Boco, — "Rainbow  Canyon,"  in  the  Navajo, 
— brought  us  into  an  ever  narrowing  pass  with  terra-cotta 
walls  rising  thousands  of  feet  on  every  side,  and  a  tur- 
bulent stream,  much  interrupted  by  boulders,  at  the  bot- 
tom. Sometimes  we  threaded  the  valley  floor,  and  some- 
times mounted  to  a  shelf  along  the  edge.  Finally,  when 
it  seemed  impossible  for  Nature  to  reserve  any  climax 
for  us,  we  looked  to  the  left, — and  saw  an  anticlimax. 
We  had  been  straining  our  eyes  straight  ahead,  each 
( ager  for  the  first  sight  of  the  Bridge,  the  mammoth 


286 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


bridge,  highest  in  the  world.  As  we  crossed  the  canyon, 
looking  down  its  length  we  saw  a  toy  arch  nestled  among 
the  smooth  cliffs,  like  a  mouse  among  elephants. 

Not  till  we  had  wound  down  the  trail  overlooking  the 
river  and  leading  under  the  bridge,  not  till  we  dismounted 
under  the  buttresses  of  the  arch,  and  saw  that  they  them- 
selves were  young  hills  did  we  get  an  idea  of  its  majesty. 
Our  Navajo  walked  around  it,  for  no  good  Navajo  will 
pass  under  the  sacred  arch  unless  he  knows  the  prayer 
suitable  to  this  occasion.  We  followed  Hostein  Chee, 
and  camped  on  a  slope  on  the  other  side.  From  this 
angle  the  bridge  appeared  stupendous,  towering  above 
cliffs  really  much  higher,  but  seeming  less  by  the  pers- 
pective. Unlike  so  many  of  Nature's  freaks,  it  required 
no  imagination  to  make  it  look  like  an  arch.  Symmetri- 
cal and  rhythmic  of  outline,  with  its  massive  buttresses 
in  beautiful  proportion  to  the  rest,  it  spans  the  San  Juan, 
which,  cutting  through  the  narrow  canyon,  curves  about 
to  form  deep  pools  into  which  we  lost  no  time  in  plung- 
ing, after  our  hot  and  nearly  bathless  journey. 

Whoever  called  it  a  bridge  misnamed  it,  for  it  bridges 
nothing.  Before  seeing  it  we  had  ambitions  to  climb  to 
the  top,  and  walk  across,  and  while  I  daresay  we  should 
all  have  gone  if  any  one  of  us  had  insisted  on  attempting 
it,  we  may  have  been  secretly  relieved  that  nobody  in- 
sisted too  hard.  It  means  a  stiff  climb  negotiated  with 
ropes,  up  an  adjacent  cliff.  From  the  level  top  of  this 
cliff  one  works  around  to  a  monument  rock  near  the  south- 
west end  of  the  arch  where  a  single  pinon  grows  from  a 
niche.  A  rope  is  swung  from  the  cliff  above,  fastened 
in  the  pinon,  and  over  a  twenty-foot  gap,  at  a  height  of 
three  hundred  feet  and  more  above  the  rock-strewn 


w    a 

o  ;§ 

8! 

it 
1 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  287 

river,  one  jumps  to  the  shelving  arch  of  the  bridge, 
Returning  is  even  worse  than  going — I  believe  only  eight 
people  have  ever  mounted  the  bridge. 

The  Golfer  meanwhile  had  reached  the  tee  of  his 
ambitions,  with  two  dozen  balls  and  his  trusty  brassie. 
We  came  on  him  at  the  edge  of  the  tumbled  river,  cast- 
ing a  doubtful  eye  up  the  rough  slopes  and  crag-strewn 
course. 

"Bunkered,  by  gosh,"  we  heard  him  say. 

"If  you  don't  mind  a  little  climb,"  said  the  guide,  "I 
think  we  can  fix  you  all  right." 

Accordingly  we  stuffed  our  pockets  with  golf-balls, 
while  the  Golfer  tied  the  remainder  to  his  waist,  and 
began  to  climb  one  of  the  smooth  cliffs  to  the  right  of 
the  arch,  with  the  understanding  that  whoever  had  good 
courage  might  go  on  to  the  top  of  the  bridge.  The  last 
lap  of  the  climb  brought  us  to  a  ledge  which  went  sheer 
in  the  air  for  about  twenty  feet  (it  seemed  like  two 
hundred),  without  visible  means  of  support.  But  noth- 
ing daunts  an  Old-Timer.  Ours  twirled  his  rope,  las- 
soed an  overhanging  shrub  at  the  top  of  the  ledge,  and 
shinnied  up  like  a  cat,  twisted  it  twice  about  the  shrubs 
and  then  around  his  wrists,  and  one  by  one,  each  accord- 
ing to  his  nature, — but  not  like  a  cat, — we  followed. 

Toby,  who  is  a  reincarnated  mountain  goat,  scrambled 
up  with  careless  abandon.  Murray  took  it  without  com- 
ment. Martha,  suddenly  stricken  with  horizontal  fever, 
was  yanked  up  bodily.  When  it  came  to  my  turn,  I  got 
halfway  up  without  trouble,  but  there  the  thought  struck 
me  that  Mr.  Wetherell  was  a  dreadfully  peaked  man 
to  be  the  only  thing  between  me  and  the  San  Juan  river. 
I  wished  that  he  had  sat  still  in  his  youth  long  enough  to 


288 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


fatten  up  a  bit.  I  called  to  him  to  sit  heavy,  and  he  called 
back  to  straighten  my  knees  and  keep  away  from  the 
cliff.  My  knees,  however,  will  not  straighten  on  high; 
instead  they  vibrate  excitably.  As  for  throwing  my  body 
voluntarily  out  from  that  friendly  cliff, — the  only  bit  of 
mother  earth,  though  at  a  peculiar  angle,  within  several 
hundred  feet, — it  hardly  seemed  sensible.  I  did  not  wait 
to  reach  the  top  to  decide  that  it  was  too  hot  to  climb  to 
the  bridge,  and  I  think  the  others  went  through  a  similar 
mental  process,  for  when  I  thankfully  was  pulled  over 
the  edge,  I  heard  several  people  say,  "Awfully  hot,  isn't 
it?  Pretty  hot  to  go  much  further?" 

The  Golfer  was  the  last  and  heaviest  to  come  up  the 
rope.  Halfway  up,  his  arms  shot  out  wildly,  and  I  heard 
a  gasp  of  horror,  and  far  below,  plop,  plop,  saw  one 
hard  rubber  ball  after  another  leap  as  the  chamois  from 
crag  to  crag,  and  join  the  river  below.  He  had  tied  the 
box  of  balls  insecurely,  it  seemed.  For  the  moment  we 
could  hardly  have  felt  worse  if  it  had  been  the  Golfer 
himself.  A  baker's  dozen  went  where  no  caddy  could 
find  them.  From  our  pockets  we  collected  eleven  balls, 
with  which  to  perform  the  deed  which  had  brought  us 
toilfully  through  these  perils. 

We  could  see  only  the  keystone  of  the  Bridge  from 
the  summit  of  our  cliff,  but  its  surface  offered  a  good 
approach.  Murray  took  the  first  drive.  His  ball  made 
a  magnificent  arc,  grazed  the  top  of  the  Bridge,  seemed 
to  hesitate  a  moment,  then  fell  on  the  near  side.  Then 
came  the  Golfer's  turn.  He  approached  it  several  times, 
but  something  seemed  wrong.  He  cast  a  look  in  our 
direction.  We  had  been  frivolously  talking.  He  drove, 
but  the  ball  glanced  to  one  side  and  disappeared. 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  289 

"Better  luck,"  he  said,  passing  the  club  to  Murray. 
But  Murray  had  no  better  luck,  and  the  two  alternated 
until  it  seemed  as  if  the  San  Juan  must  be  choked  with 
golf  balls. 

"It's  an  easy  drive.  Any  duffer  could  do  it,"  said  the 
Golfer  impatiently.  Apparently  there  was  something 
about  the  drive  more  difficult  than  it  looked.  Perspec- 
tive was  lost  in  the  clear  air,  and  the  jumble  of  rocks 
before  us  seemed  closer  than  they  were.  With  only  two 
balls  remaining,  the  Golfer  again  took  his  turn,  after 
several  brilliant  failures  on  both  sides.  Once  more  he 
turned  a  majestic  glance  toward  us.  A  bee  had  crawled 
down  my  back,  and  Martha  was  removing  it,  but  after 
that  glance  we  let  the  bee  stay  where  he  was.  A  hushed 
silence  fell  on  our  little  group  at  this  historic  moment. 
Since  Adam  and  Eve,  we  were  the  first  group  of  people 
ever  gathered  together  in  this  lonely,  inaccessible  spot 
for  the  purpose  of  driving  a  golf-ball  over  the  Rainbow 
Bridge.  No  cheers  came  from  the  assemblage  as  the 
Golfer  addressed  the  ball  innumerable  times,  and  at  last 
raised  his  brassie  and  drove. 

"Keep  your  eye  on  the  ball,"  said  someone.  We  did 
so,  and  our  several  eyes  soared  toward  the  arch,  struck 
the  rock  towering  beside  the  bridge,  and  ricochetted  over 
the  far  side.  Technically,  though  by  a  fluke,  we  had  the 
ball  over.  I  say  we,  because  we  all  worked  as  hard  as 
the  Golfer  and  Murray.  Murray  refused  the  last  ball, 
and  just  because  he  didn't  have  to,  the  Golfer  drove  this 
easily  and  surely  over.  We  had  achieved  our  purpose. 
We  were  the  first  to  put  a  golf  ball  over  Rainbow  Bridge, 
not  a  great  contribution  to  history  or  science,  but  giving 
us  a  certain  hilarious  satisfaction.  It  is  not  so  easy  to  be 


290 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


first  at  anything  in  these  days,  when  everything  has  been 
tried  already.  Toby  who  once  stigmatized  the  ambition 
as  "cheap, "  crossed  her  fingers  as  the  Golfer  launched 
his  last  ball,  and  photographed  him  in  the  act  for  the 
benefit  of  posterity.  Our  Old-Timer,  another  scoffer, 
later  spent  an  hour  hunting  the  triumphal  ball,  and  on 
retrieving  it  from  the  river  bank,  begged  it  for  a  sou- 
venir. Anyone  who  doubts  the  authenticity  of  our  feat 
may  see  the  ball  at  Kayenta  today.  And  even  Hostein 
Chee,  alias  Wah-Wah,  alias  De-jiss-je,  salvaged  a  half- 
dozen  of  the  lost  balls,  and  was  seen  patiently  hacking 
away  at  them  with  the  Golfer's  best  brassie.  And  he 
was  remarkably  good  at  it,  too. 

The  campfire,  built  that  night  under  the  sweeping 
black  arch,  seemed  like  home  amid  the  looming  cliffs  and 
monoliths.  The  air  was  full  of  that  strangest,  most 
arresting  odor  in  the  desert, — the  smell  of  fresh,  run- 
ning water. 

I  lay  awake  for  hours,  watching  the  stars  wheel  over 
the  curve  of  the  arch.  It  was  not  surprising  that  the 
Navajos  held  this  spot  in  superstitious  reverence,  as  the 
haunt  of  gods.  We  were  all,  I  think,  in  a  state  of  sus- 
pended attention,  waiting  for  something  to  happen  which 
never  did  happen.  Soon  the  moon,  startlingly  brilliant 
in  the  high  air,  circled  over  to  the  wall  topping  the  south- 
west side  of  the  bridge,  and  upon  this  lofty  screen  the 
arch  was  reproduced  in  silhouette.  Why  this  should 
have  seemed  the  last  touch  to  the  strange  beauty  of  the 
place  I  do  not  know,  but  when  I  waked  Toby  to  watch 
it,  we  lay  there,  almost  holding  our  breath,  until  the 
shadow  had  made  its  arc  down  the  side  of  the  cliff 
and  disappeared. 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  291 

After  a  week's  travel  to  reach  the  Bridge,  to  turn 
homeward  instantly  seemed  ridiculous.  The  first  day 
took  us  a  weary  twenty-five  miles  back  to  De-jiss-je  Camp, 
prodding  our  exhausted  animals  every  step  of  the  way, 
till  we  too  were  exhausted.  We  intended  to  circle  back 
through  Utah,  crossing  Piute  and  Nakis  Canyons  at  the 
upper  end  and  touching  the  lower  edge  of  the  Monument 
country.  Always  a  wearing  trip,  ours  to  the  Bridge  and 
back  was  more  than  usually  so,  because  our  unexpected 
arrival  at  Kayenta  had  given  no  chance  to  get  the 
horses  in  condition.  Tired  animals  mean  forced  camps, 
irregular  and  scanty  meals,  and  consequently  less  sleep 
and  more  fatigue, — a  vicious  circle. 

We  ate  the  last  of  the  mutton  that  night.  Tough  and 
sandy  and  gristly  it  proved,  but  the  stew  from  it  was 
fairly  delicious.  When  the  meal  ended,  Wah-Wah  bor- 
rowed a  needle  and  thread,  and  smilingly  announced  to 
our  circle  that  he  intended  to  mend  his  outer  garments. 
Without  further  ceremony,  he  pulled  his  shirt  and 
trousers  off,  leaving  only  his  checkerboard  underdrawers. 
Pleased  at  the  concentration  of  interest,  which  he  attrib- 
uted to  his  skill  at  sewing,  he  beamed  upon  us  all.  "Dis- 
gusting old  heathen,"  said  Martha. 

But  Hostein  Chee  was  not  without  friends.  Next 
morning  with  a  show  of  great  enthusiasm  an  old  Navajo 
rode  up,  greeted  him,  and  thereafter,  either  lured  by 
Red  Man's  companionship  or  hope  of  a  free  lunch  thrice 
daily  made  himself  just  useful  enough  to  be  permitted  to 
follow  our  camp.  Fat  and  venerable,  with  flowing  shirt 
and  gray  hair  tied  in  a  chignon,  and  hung  with  jewelry 
he  looked  so  like  an  old  woman  that  we  dubbed  him 
Aunt  Mary.  His  manners  were  no  better  than  poor 


292  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

Hostein  Chee's,  but  his  manner  was  superb.  Under  his 
outer  trousers,  which  flapped  loose,  he  wore  bed  ticking, 
which  served  him  for  napkin,  handkerchief,  and  towel, 
with  princely  dignity  employed.  Between  the  two 
Navajos  our  stock  of  sugar  ran  very  low.  He  did  us  a 
good  turn,  however,  by  riding  off  to  a  nearby  Ute  camp 
and  obtaining  fresh  horses.  All  those  we  had  started 
with  had  succumbed.  Not  only  Martha,  but  all  of  us 
were  glad  to  exchange  mounts  for  the  tough  little  mules 
which  had  carried  the  packs  in  and  were  now  willing  to 
carry  us  out  of  Nonnezoche  Boco.  Toby  bestrode  Annie, 
who  from  being  despised  and  rejected  of  all  was  now  the 
prize.  She  never  wandered,  kept  at  an  even  pace,  and 
never  missed  the  trail.  Annie  is  one  of  the  few  people 
in  the  world  who  could  find  her  way  to  the  bridge  and 
back  without  a  guide. 

Another  day  brought  us  to  the  borders  of  Utah  and 
Arizona.  The  Rainbow  Bridge  belongs  to  Utah,  a  day 
over  the  line.  Piute  Canyon  crosses  both  states.  We 
had  passed  it  in  Arizona  and  were  now  to  cross  it  in 
Utah.  But  both  states  claim  the  glory  of  owning  the 
most  magnificent  territory  in  the  Union.  If  the  Grand 
Canyon  were  more  tremendous  than  any  one  thing  we 
saw  in  these  three  days'  march,  still  it  has  not  the  cumu- 
lative effect  of  grandeur  piled  upon  grandeur.  Since  the 
discovery  of  the  Bridge  in  1909  its  discoverers  and  an 
increasing  number  of  people  who  have  seen  this  country 
have  advocated  making  it  a  National  Park.  It  is  certain 
no  park  we  now  have  could  rival  its  stupendous 
uniqueness. 

Canyon  after  canyon  opened  before  us,  painted  in  the 
distance  with  every  hue  imaginable.  Piute  Canyon  was 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  293 

buff  and  pink;  Copper  canyon,  following  soon  after,  a 
gorgeous  blaze  of  rich  red  and  deep  blue  tones.  Then 
came  a  succession  of  three  smaller  canyons  each  turned  a 
different  hue  by  the  sun,  the  distance  and  the  substance  of 
the  rock.  We  ascended  and  descended  in  the  blazing 
heat,  until  it  seemed  as  if  all  life  had  been  a  going  up 
and  a  coming  down.  Toward  sunset  on  the  ninth  day,  a 
trail  overlooking  a  long  narrow  valley  ended  abruptly  in 
a  pass  cut  through  solid  boulders  which  we  could  barely 
ride  through.  Beyond,  unexpectedly,  a  broad  vista  of 
the  Monument  country  spread  like  a  vision  of  the 
promised  land.  Isolated  cliffs  pointed  the  valley,  in 
every  grotesque  form.  Rocks  as  high  as  Cleopatra's 
Needle  and  the  arch  of  Napoleon,  and  similarly  shaped; 
new  world  sphinxes,  organ  rocks,  trumpeting  angels, 
shapes  of  beasts  and  men  had  been  carved  here  in  past 
ages  by  the  freaks  of  wind  and  water.  One  of  the  busiest 
corners  of  the  earth  ages  ago  and  now  the  loneliest  and 
most  desolate,  its  beauty  was  like  a  woman's  who  had 
survived  every  passion,  and  lives  in  retrospect. 

El  Capitan,  rising  alone  from  the  yellow  sands,  sailed 
before  us  like  a  full-rigged  ship  from  sunset  to  the  next 
morning,  when  we  rode  our  last  eighteen  miles  to  Kay- 
enta.  The  sight  of  it,  and  the  orange  dunes  beyond 
spurred  us  all.  Spontaneously  we  broke  into  a  twelve 
mile  canter.  The  little  white  mule  Annie  who  had  finally 
fallen  to  me,  kept  her  freshness  and  speed  and  general 
pluckiness.  She  out-distanced  them  all  by  a  length. 
We  made  a  ludicrous  picture  as  we  came  flying  over  the 
rocks  and  dunes  and  desert,  shouting  and  galloping. 
Even  the  pack  beasts,  worn  to  bone  since  they  departed 
from  the  corral,  smelled  Kayenta,  and  there  was  no 


294 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


stopping  them.  Navajos  rode  out  to  join  us,  leaving 
their  herd  of  a  thousand  sheep  to  cross  our  path  at  their 
peril.  We  arrived  not  half  an  hour  after  the  Indian 
messenger,  sent  ahead  to  tell  of  our  coming. 

How  civilized  the  remote  little  trading  post  seemed! 
How  ultra-aesthetic  to  eat  at  a  table  with  napkins  and 
table  linen,  food  passed  by  a  neat  Navajo  maid!  What 
throngs  of  people  inhabited  Kayenta, — more  than  we 
had  met  altogether  in  ten  days!  We  bathed  who  had 
not  seen  water,  we  feasted  and  relaxed,  and  bought 
Navajo  necklaces  in  the  store.  To  our  surprise  the  same 
old  women  we  had  left  behind  us  were  still  alive  and 
scarcely  grayer  or  more  toothless ;  we  had  not  been  away 
for  years,  as  had  seemed  from  our  isolation  in  the  still 
canyons  where  all  sense  of  time  disappeared  and  we 
lived  in  eternity  along  with  the  rocks  and  sky. 

That  evening,  as  we  sat  on  wool  bags  heaped  high 
near  the  post,  a  group  of  young  Navajos  came  and 
announced  they  wished  to  welcome  our  return^  with  a 
serenade.  They  grouped  in  a  circle,  very  bashful  at  our 
applause,  and  while  one  held  a  lantern,  began  to  sing 
their1  ancient  tribal  songs.  I  shall  never  forget  the  weird 
setting  of  rolling  hills  of  orange  sand,  and  moonlighted 
red  cliffs  behind  the  circle  of  their  dark  figures.  Lightly 
swaying  to  the  music,  they  began  a  savage  chanting,  with 
rhythmically  placed  falsetto  yelps  and  guttural  shouts. 
Their  voices  had  real  beauty,  and  the  music  suited  their 
surroundings.  They  started  with  a  mild  song  of  hunt- 
ing or  love,  but  soon  they  were  singing  war  songs.  Our 
blood  stirred  to  an  echo  of  something  we  knew  many 
lives  ago.  The  lantern  light  made  a  wilder,  wider  arc; 
the  shouts  became  more  fierce;  the  group  swayed  faster 


,1 


Hi 


••••••••••• 

MONUMENT  COUNTRY,  RAINBOW  TRAIL. 

Isolated  cliffs  pointed  the  valley  in  every  grotesque  form. 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  TRAIL. 


RAINBOW  BRIDGE  295 

and  swung  into  a  wide  ellipse.  Worked  upon  by  the 
hypnotism  of  their  war-music,  they  locked  arms  about 
each  other  in  tight  grip ;  for  the  moment  they  were  ages 
away  from  Carlisle.  The  blackness,  the  orange  hills,  the 
swinging  light,  the  shouts,  the  listening  stillness  of  the 
desert, — that  will  always  be  Kayenta  for  me. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   CANYON  DE   CHELLEY 

TT  7E  had  been  pulled  out  of  difficulties  by  donkeys, 
V  V  men,  autos  and  pulleys.  It  remained  for  Kayenta 
to  show  us  a  new  way  out.  When  a  terrific  thank-you- 
marm  jolted  off  our  power,  our  late  host's  daughter  rode 
out  on  her  stout  cow-pony,  roped  us,  so  to  speak,  and 
started  forward  as  though  she  intended  to  tow  us.  The 
knowing  horse,  who  had  seen  thousands  of  steers  act  as 
the  old  lady  was  doing  now,  treated  the  car  with  equal 
contempt,  and  braced  her  feet.  It  was  thirty-horse  to 
one-horse  power,  but  the  better  animal  won.  We  slid 
forward  in  gear,  jolting  our  power  on  again  as  we 
moved  ahead. 

Sluggish  after  two  week's  hard  exercise,  we  were  late 
in  getting  started  for  Chin  Le.  Thunderous  clouds  were 
already  blackening  the  afternoon  sky.  They  greatly 
increased  the  desert's  beauty,  making  it  majestic  beyond 
words.  Soon  the  storm  burst,  and  silver  sheets  of  rain 
obliterated  everything  but  the  distant  red  hills.  We  were 
in  the  middle  of  a  flat  plain  with  landmarks  more  or  less 
like  any  other  landmarks.  By  twilight  we  were  travel- 
ing through  thick,  red  mud,  and  by  dark  the  mud  had 
disappeared  beneath  an  inland  lake.  The  road  was  not. 
We  only  knew  we  kept  to  it,  in  some  miraculous  fashion, 
because  we  continued  slowly  to  progress.  Halfway  to 

Chin  Le  we  stopped  in  the  dark  at  a  little  trader's  post, 

296 


THE  CANYON  DE  CHELLEY  297 

bought  gasoline  at  seventy-five  cents  a  gallon,  and  con- 
tinued our  splashing.  All  we  could  see  between  two  lines 
of  hills  was  water.  We  lost  the  road  for  a  moment,  got 
into  a  deep  draw,  and  when  we  emerged  from  our  bath, 
the  generating  system  was  no  more. 

Around  us  was  blackness,  with  a  few  distant  mesas 
outlined  through  the  slashing  rain.  The  men  got  out, 
and  examined  the  machinery,  while  Toby  and  I  stayed 
within,  enjoying  the  luxury  of  a  breakdown  which  neces- 
sitated no  exertion  on  our  part.  They  returned  covered 
with  mud  halfway  to  the  knees.  The  guide  volunteered 
to  walk  to  Chin  Le  for  help.  It  might  be  five  or  ten 
miles.  We  promised,  rather  unnecessarily,  not  to  move 
till  he  returned.  He  took  our  one  electric  torch,  and 
vanished  into  the  blackest  night  I  ever  saw.  A  forlorn 
feeling  settled  over  us.  We  had  no  light,  little  food  and 
no  guide,  and  no  present  means  of  transportation.  If 
our  guide  fell  into  some  new-born  raging  torrent,  not 
one  of  us  knew  the  way  back. 

In  five  minutes  we  were  all  asleep.  We  were  awakened 
hours  later  by  a  voice  that  meant  business,  shouting 
"Stop!  Who's  there?" 

Murray's  round,  red  face  loomed  above  the  front  seat 
like  the  rising  moon. 

"Who's  there?"     The  Golfer  took  up  the  challenge. 

We  in  the  back  seat  trembled.  Whoever  was  there 
had  us  at  his  mercy.  We  were  entirely  unarmed.  No- 
body answered,  and  in  a  few  minutes  we  regained  enough 
courage  to  ask  questions  in  bated  whispers. 

"What  did  you  see,  Murray?" 

"The    burglar,"    said    Murray,    looking   bewildered. 


298 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


Then  it  dawned  on  us  he  had  been  having  a  nightmare, 
and  we  all  breathed  again. 

"What  time  is  it?"  someone  asked. 

"One  o'clock."  We  looked  at  each  other.  The  guide 
had  been  gone  four  hours. 

"Had  we  better  hunt  for  him?"  asked  Murray. 

"Where  could  we  go?"  asked  the  Golfer. 

That  seemed  to  settle  all  question  of  action.  We 
repacked  ourselves  and  I  made  myself  more  comfortable 
by  removing  a  suitcase  from  my  left  foot,  and  Toby's 
specimens  from  the  back  of  my  neck,  and  soon  we  were 
asleep  again.  It  seemed  heartless,  not  knowing  the 
guide's  fate,  but  I  suppose  we  reasoned  we  could  face 
tragedy  better  if  we  had  our  sleep  out.  So  quiet  fol- 
lowed. We  awoke  through  the  night  only  to  complain 
of  a  paralyzed  foot  or  arm,  and  demand  our  share  of 
the  car  and  covers.  A  strange  informality  prevailed,  as 
must  when  five  people,  each  aggressively  bent  on  obtain- 
ing his  proper  amount  of  rest,  occupy  one  touring  car 
all  night. 

At  four,  a  hideous  noise  awoke  us.  Murray  had 
fallen  on  the  horn,  and  had  brought  forth  sound.  It  took 
us  a  moment  to  realize  this  meant  the  return  of  our 
power.  We  were  free  to  go  ahead.  But  with  north, 
south,  east  and  west  completely  disguised  as  an  inland 
sea,  we  thought  it  discreet  to  wait  till  sunrise.  We  no 
longer  hoped  for  the  guide's  return,  and  gloomily  looked 
for  a  sad  ending  to  our  trip. 

The  sunrise,  when  it  came,  was  worth  waiting  for. 
Fresh-washed  and  glowing,  the  holiday  colors  of  the 
hills  came  out  from  the  mediocre  buffs  and  grays  of  the 
desert,  and  the  primrose  sky  slowly  became  gilded  with 


Pdpp 


ENTRANCE  TO  THE  CANYON  DE  CHELLEY. 


THE  CANYON  DE  CHELLEY  299 

glory.  As  nothing  exceeds  the  weariness  of  the  desert  at 
noon,  so  nothing  compares  with  its  freshness,  its  revela- 
tion of  beauty,  at  dawn.  Each  mesa  was  outlined  in  gold. 
Waves  of  color,  each  melting  into  the  next,  flushed  the 
prairie  and  sky.  We  forgot  the  tedium  of  the  night  in 
this  splendor  of  morning. 

We  motored  slowly  through  all  this  glory, — our  car 
having  started  on  the  first  trial, — through  seven  miles  of 
mud,  but  Chin  Le  had  apparently  been  swallowed  up 
by  the  deluge.  The  mesas  took  on  an  unfamiliar  aspect, 
and  we  concluded  that  hidden  by  some  gully,  we  had 
gone  beyond  our  destination.  A  red-banded  Navajo  on 
a  pinto  rode  up  curiously  when  we  called  him.  He  was 
the  only  soul  on  the  vast  horizon,  and  he  understood  no 
English,  and  appeared  slow  in  comprehending  our  Na- 
vajo. Waving  his  hand  vaguely  in  the  direction  from 
which  we  came,  he  repeated  one  word. 

"Ishklish  I" 

"If  we  only  knew  what  ishklish  meant  we  should  be 
all  right,"  said  Toby  hopefully. 

"Not  ishklish, — slicklish,"  corrected  the  Golfer  who 
had  made  quite  a  specialty  of  Navajo,  and  who  could 
pronounce,  "De-jiss-je"  better  than  any  of  us.  "Slick- 
lish !  I  know  I've  heard  that  word  before." 

"Ishklish!  Slicklish,"  we  repeated  with  bent  brows, 
in  Gilbertian  chorus.  "We've  heard  that  word  before. 
We're  sure  we've  heard  that  word  before." 

"Ishklish!"  assented  the  Navajo. 

The  Golfer  pursued  his  philological  meditations  to  a 
triumphant  end. 

"Slicklish  means  matches!"  he  announced. 

His  discovery  did  not  impress  us  as  he  expected. 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 

"Why  should  he  come  up  to  a  party  of  motorists  at 
five  in  the  morning  to  say  'matches'?"  we  asked. 

"Because  he  wants  a  cigarette,"  answered  our  lin- 
guist. "As  it  is  a  marked  discourtesy  among  Indians  to 
offer  a  cigarette  without  matches,  he  takes  the  more 
subtle  way  of  begging  a  smoke  by  asking  for  matches. 
Slicklish!" 

"Ishklish !"  nodded  the  Navajo.  Apparently  he  could 
keep  on  like  that  forever. 

Pulling  out  his  cigarette  case,  the  Golfer  gave  the 
Indian  a  handful  with  a  match.  The  latter  gave  us  a 
radiant  smile,  and  rode  away. 

"You  see  that's  what  he  meant." 

Murray  often  put  his  finger  on  the  point.  "What  good 
does  that  do  us?"  he  asked. 

Following  the  Navajo's  vague  gestures,  we  came  at 
last  within  sight  of  the  long  government  buildings  of 
Chin  Le.  But  between  them  and  us  an  arroyo  lay,  no 
longer  the  puddle  we  had  splashed  through  on  our  way 
to  Kayenta,  but  four  feet  of  red  torrent  which  had  al- 
ready cut  down  the  soft  banks  into  miniature  cliffs,  and 
completely  barred  our  crossing.  We  shuddered  when  we 
saw  it,  and  thought  how  easy  it  would  be  for  a  man  to 
slip  over  these  slippery  banks  in  the  dark.  Now  seriously 
concerned  at  the  guide's  failure  to  appear,  the  two  men 
started  off  to  find  if  possible  a  ford  they  might  safely 
attempt,  while  we  got  out  the  coffee  pot,  and  built  a  tiny 
fire  of  twigs,  the  only  fuel  in  sight.  The  matches  were 
wet,  the  sugar  melted,  and  the  can-opener  lost  By  the 
time  we  managed  to  get  the  coffee  boiling  we  saw  a  two 
horse  team  crossing  the  stream,  with  the  trader  and  the 
missing  guide  on  the  front  seat. 


THE  CANYON  DE  CHELLEY  301 

"Where  did  you  spend  the  night?"  we  asked,  much 
relieved  to  see  him  alive. 

"In  bed,  at  Mr.  Stagg's,"  he  answered.  He  explained 
that  he  had  reached  Chin  Le  safely,  and  had  taken  a 
wagon  out  to  find  us,  but  failing  to  do  so,  had  gone  back 
to  bed.  He  started  out  in  the  morning  just  in  time  to 
save  Murray -and  the  Golfer  from  a  cold  swim. 

Leaving  the  car  until  the  flood  should  abate,  we  piled 
our  belongings  and  ourselves  into  the  wagon,  and  started 
across  the  muddy  stream.  The  water  rose  to  the  hubs, 
then  to  the  horses'  shoulders.  One  stepped  in  a  hole, 
almost  disappearing,  and  nearly  carrying  the  wagon  with 
him,  but  at  last  we  crossed  safely,  and  reached  Stagg's 
in  time  for  breakfast.  We  told  the  adventures  of  the 
night,  ending  with  our  encounter  with  the  Navajo. 

"What  does  ishklish  mean?"  we  asked. 

"You  mean  slicklish,"  corrected  the  Golfer. 

"Ishklish?  Slicklish?"  said  Mr.  Stagg.  "Oh,  you 
mean  ushklush." 

"Well,  what  does  ushklush  mean?" 

"Why,  ushklush  means  mud." 

It  is,  I  think,  the  best  name  for  mud  that  could  be 
invented,  especially  the  Navajo  mud  we  had  ushklushed 
through  since  dawn. 

We  were  all  unprepared  for  the  Canyon  de  Chelley 
when  we  came  upon  it,  a  few  hours  later.  The  entrance 
is  the  sort  all  such  places  should  have,  casual,  yet  dra- 
matic,— hiding  one  moment  what  it  reveals  with  telling 
effect  the  next.  The  rolling  plain  apparently  spread  for 
miles  without  variation;  nothing  unusual,  sand  and  bleak 
dunes,  sage  and  pirion,  and  behind,  against  buff  hills,  the 
rather  ugly  government  buildings,  schools,  hospitals,  and 


302 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


like  substitutes  for  freedom  that  we  gi^e  the  Indian. 
We  rode  a  few  steps  down  a  natural  rocity  incline,  and 
a  wall  opened,  as  it  did  for  Aladdin,  and  through  the 
aperture  of  these  gate-like  cliffs  we  saw  the  beginning  of 
a  narrow  valley,  grassy  and  fertile,  bordering  a  river 
imprisoned  for  life  between  continuous  walls,  smooth, 
dark  red,  varying  in  height  from  three  hundred  to  three 
thousand  feet,  and  as  unbroken  as  if  some  giant  had 
sliced  them  with  his  sword.  We  rode  through  this  em- 
bodiment of  Dead  Man's  Gulch,  and  came  a  few  feet 
beyond  on  the  canyon  of  whose  beauty  we  had  heard 
from  afar. 

Canyon  de  Chelley  is  a  dry  river  bed,  with  banks  a 
thousand  feet  or  more  in  the  air.  In  winter  and  early 
spring  the  water  brims  up  to  the  solid  walls  hemming  it 
in  on  all  sides,  leaving  no  foothold  for  horse  or  man.  As 
It  recedes,  towards  summer,  it  leaves  broad  strips  of 
beaches  and  fertile  little  green  nooks  under  the  shadow  of 
the  cliffs,  with  the  river  meandering  in  the  middle.  Yet 
lovely  as  it  is,  it  has  a  Lorelei  charm.  Its  yellow  sands, 
when  not  thoroughly  dry,  are  treacherous, — quicksand 
of  the  worst  sort. 

With  our  outfit  we  had  a  large  wagon,  which  our 
driver  turned  too  quickly  over  a  new  cut-bank.  In  an 
instant,  the  wagon  toppled  on  two  wheels,  and  we  had  a 
vision  of  Toby  and  Martha  flying  through  the  air,  fol- 
lowed by  bedding,  cameras  and  supplies.  Fortunately 
they  barely  escaped  the  overturning  wagon,  which  fol- 
lowed them,  and  landed  unhurt.  Before  we  could  reach 
them  the  contents  of  the  wagon  were  entirely  covered  by 
the  sucking  sand.  Had  it  been  spring,  when  the  pull 


NEAR  THE  ENTRANCE  OF  CANYON  DE  CKELLE/,  ARIZONA. 
Canyon  de  Chelley  is  a  river  bed  with  banks  a  thousand  feet  or  more  in  air. 


THE  CANYON  DE  CHELLEY  303 

of  the  quicksand  is  more  vigorous,  we  should  not  have 
been  able  to  recover  them. 

Those  of  us  who  were  on  horseback  followed  the  edge 
of  the  stream,  sometimes  acting  as  guide  for  the  wagon, 
sometimes  following  in  its  slow  wake.  We  galloped 
ahead,  on  the  hard  sands,  level  and  smooth  for  miles,  or 
splashed  to  our  horses*  knees  in  the  deeper  parts  of  the 
stream,  or  edged  them  more  cautiously  through  quick- 
sands, of  which  there  still  remained  more  than  a  trace. 
They  sank  to  the  ankles,  and  each  hoof  left  a  little  swirl- 
ing, sucking  well,  which  quickly  filled  with  water.  But 
only  one  spot  seemed  at  all  dangerous. 

The  river  was  constantly  turning  and  twisting  upon 
itself,  looking  back  over  its  shoulder  through  gateways 
of  sheer  cliffs,  smooth  as  if  someone  had  frosted  them 
with  chocolate  icing.  In  the  narrow  space  between  them 
a  little  Paradise  of  shade  and  sunlight,  grass  and  blossom- 
ing fruit  trees,  ran  like  a  parti-colored  ribbon.  The 
Navajos  have  planted  peach  trees  in  this  fertile  strip. 
Graceful  cottonwoods  make  an  emerald  shelter,  and 
brooks  branch  into  the  central  stream.  The  river  spreads 
out  in  great  shallows  at  will,  with  rank  grass  growing 
knee-high  at  its  edge.  Rocks  like  cathedrals  stand  guar- 
dian at  every  turn,  so  close  together  sometimes  that  the 
sky  is  held  prisoner  in  a  wedge  of  blue. 

Patches  of  rough  gardens  cut  into  the  flowered  banks 
gave  us  our  first  intimation  that  the  Paradise  sheltered 
an  Adam  and  an  Eve.  Then  we  saw  wattled  huts  of 
willow,  the  summer  hogans  of  Navajos,  airier  and  more 
graceful  than  their  mud  plastered  winter  huts.  On  turn- 
ing a  corner  where  the  receding  river  had  already  left  a 
long,  fertile  island,  we  came  on  an  encampment  of  these 


304 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


brightly  dressed,  alert  Arabs,  with  their  keen  faces  and 
winged  poise.  Horses  and  sheep  were  pastured  near,  and 
under  the  trees  several  women  had  erected  frames  on 
which  were  stretched  half-finished  rugs.  Others,  in  their 
full  gathered  skirts  with  gay  flounces,  rode  their  horses 
to  water  as  easily  as  if  they  wore  breeches  and  puttees. 
Under  the  cliffs  they  looked  like  tiny  dots.  This  canyon 
is  the  favorite  summer  resort  of  neighboring  Indians,  and 
no  wonder.  Here  for  a  pleasant  season  they  can  forget 
the  arid  wastes  of  the  desert  in  their  apricot  orchards, 
and  grow  without  travail  their  corn  and  beans  and 
melons. 

We  had  scarcely  left  this  gypsy  encampment  before 
we  saw  mute  evidence  that  the  place  had  been  beloved  of 
more  than  one  generation  of  Indians.  Nearly  at  the  top 
of  a  rock  clustered  a  few  cliff  houses,  mere  crannies  in 
the  wall,  and  all  along  that  unbroken  cliff  were  little, 
scared  shelters,  no  bigger  than  mousetraps,  watching 
with  scared  eyes  as  no  doubt  their  inmates  did  long  ago, 
the  approaches  to  their  stronghold.  Tradition  has  it 
that  the  architects  of  these  houses  were  ancestors  of  the 
Hopis,  driven  here  partly  by  enemies,  partly  by  drought, 
but  also  by  the  inspiration  of  their  medicine  men.  It  is 
not  strange  these  empty  nests  should  be  arresting  sights, 
dating  back  to  the  antiquity  when  the  Hopis  could  turn 
into  snakes,  and  the  king's  son  and  his  snake  bride  fol- 
lowed the  star  which  led  them  to  Walpi.  They  may  have 
inhatwted  the  very  eyrie  we  saw.  A  tiny,  bridal  apart- 
ment it  was,  so  inaccessible  at  the  top  of  this  slab  of  rock 
that  only  a  snake  could  climb  to  it.  Surely  no  entirely 
human  feet  would  dare  venture  those  heights. 

We  were  struck  by  the  many  isolated  dwellings  we 


CLIFF-DWELLINGS,  CANYON  DE  CHELLEY,  ARIZONA. 


THE  CANYON  DE  CHELLEY  305 

came  upon.  -  Unlike  the  extensive  cities  at  Beta-Takin, 
at  Walnut  Canyon,  and  Mesa  Verde,  these  must  have 
been  intended  for  single  families.  Between  the  various 
groups  is  a  distance  sometimes  of  a  half  mile,  sometimes 
a  mile.  The  largest  and  by  far  the  most  impressive  group 
in  the  canyon  is  Casa  Blanca,  the  White  House  of  some 
ancient  dignitary  occupying  a  commanding  position  look- 
ing far  down  the  valley  in  both  directions.  The  river 
cuts  deep  and  narrow  here,  with  shallow  islands  between. 
Above  it  by  twenty  feet  is  a  bank  where  crumbling  walls, 
painted  with  prehistoric  pictographs  of  birds  and  ani- 
mals, stand  under  the  shadow  of  Casa  Blanca.  The 
rock  is  blood  red  when  the  sun  strikes  it,  and  purple  in 
the  shadow.  Seventy  feet  up,  the  whitewashed  walls  of 
this  ancient  mansion  are  startlingly,  romantically  promi- 
nent, looking  fresh  enough  to  have  been  painted  yesterday. 

How  the  former  dwellers  reached  Casa  Blanca  is  a 
puzzle.  They  must  have  had  the  aid  of  ladders  and 
niches  in  the  rock.  Today  it  is  completely  inaccessible, 
except  to  Douglas  Fairbanks,  who  once  bounded  lightly 
up  its  side.  A  day's  ride  down  the  left  fork,  overlook- 
ing a  vale  meant  for  stately  pleasure  domes,  is  the  Cave 
of  the  Mummies.  This  community  of  cliff  dwellings  is 
so  called  because  one  startled  explorer  found  in  it  seven 
mummies,  in  perfect  preservation.  The  cave  can  be 
reached  by  diligent  climbing,  and  aside  from  all  interest 
in  things  past,  the  view  down  that  graceful,  twisting  val- 
ley is  worth  losing  many  hours  of  breath. 

We  camped  that  night  under  a  red  monolith  big 
enough  to  bury  a  nation  beneath  it.  The  beauty  of  that 
scene  is  past  my  exhausted  powers  of  description.  The 
campfire  and  the  river,  the  smooth  cliffs  penetrating  the 


306 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


black  sky  with  such  strength  and  suavity,  were  the  same 
essentials  as  we  found  at  the  Rainbow  Bridge,  yet  with 
all  the  difference  in  the  world.  Grandeur  was  here,  but 
not  the  rugged  hurly-burly  of  Titans  which  overwhelmed 
and  dwarfed  us  there.  Where  the  San  Juan  tumbles  and 
froths,  and  bursts  over  boulders,  struggling  and  tumul- 
tuous, the  de  Chelley  river  glides  peacefully,  widening 
about  pretty  shallows  and  quiet  islands.  In  Nonnezoshe 
Boco,  the  rocks  are  tortured  into  strange  shapes,  twisted 
and  wrung  like  wet  clay;  here  they  are  planed  smooth 
and  not  tossed  about  helter-skelter,  but  rhythmically  re- 
peating the  pattern  of  the  stream. 

The  essential  quality  of  the  Canyon  de  Chelley  is  not 
its  grandeur,  I  think,  but  its  rhythm,  and  the  opposite 
may  be  said  of  the  Bridge.  Those  who  have  seen  only 
de  Chelley  might  well  challenge  this  statement,  for  a 
river  walled  in  its  entire  length  by  cliffs  a  quarter  to  a 
half  mile  high  can  hardly  be  called  less  than  tremen- 
dous. But  following  as  it  does  the  meanderings  of  a 
whimsical  strfcam,  none  of  the  continuous  pictures  it 
makes  lacks  graceful  composition.  Here  one  could  spend 
pleasant  months,  loafing  in  those  little  groves  by  the 
river's  brim.  Now  the  Rainbow  Trail  could  never  be 
called  pleasant.  It  is  ferocious,  forbidding,  terrible, 
desolate,  vast, — with  relieving  oases  of  garden  and 
stream,  but  it  does  not  invite  to  loaf.  It  is  an  arduous 
and  exacting  pilgrimage.  It  does  not  smile,  like  de 
Chelley,  nor  remind  one  of  the  gracious  and  stately  land- 
scapes of  Claude  Lorraine. 

Perhaps  a  better  climax  would  have  been  gained  by 
seeing  the  Canyon  de  Chelley  first,  and  progressing  to  the 


CASA  BLANCA,  CANYON  DE  CHELLEY,  ARIZONA. 
The  rock  is  blood  red  when  the  sun  strikes  it,  and  purple  in  the  shadow. 


THE  CANYON  DE  CHELLEY  307 

Bridge,  as  we  should  have  done  had  de  Chelley  not  been 
flooded  when  we  stopped  on  our  way  to  Kayenta.  But 
anticlimax  or  not,  we  loved  the  rest  and  relaxation  after 
our  strenuous  adventure.  It  was  like  entering  Heaven 
and  finding  it  unexpectedly  gay. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

NORTH  OF  GALLUP 

1CAN  still,  by  shutting  my  eyes,  see  thousands  of 
vistas, — little  twisting  roads  clinging  tightly  to  cliffs, 
tangles  of  cactus,  gray  cliff  dwellings,  pregnant  with  the 
haunting  sense  of  life  fled  recently,  deserts  ablaze  over- 
night with  golden  poppies  and  blue  lupin,  forests  of  giant 
pines  backed  by  blue  mountains,  snow-peaked ;  long  views 
of  green  valleys  with  cottonwood-bordered  streams,  miles 
of  silver  pampas  grass,  neat  rows  of  ugly  new  bunga- 
lows in  uncompromising  sunlight,  older  wooden  shacks 
with  false  fronts,  dry  prairies  white  with  the  skeletons 
of  cattle,  copper  colored  canyons  dropping  from  under- 
foot far  into  the  depths  of  earth,  water-holes  with  thou- 
sands of  moving  sheep;  spiky,  waxen  yuccas  against  a 
night  sky; — all  this  is  the  West,  but  inseparable  from 
these  mental  visions  come  pungent  odors  so  sharp  that  I 
can  almost  smell  them  now. 

I  cannot  hope  to  reproduce  the  charm  and  joy  of  our 
wanderings,  despite  mishaps  and  disasters,  because  the 
freshness  of  mountain  altitudes  will  not  drift  from 
the  leaves  of  this  book,  nor  the  perfume  of  sunshine 
on  resin,  of  miles  of  mountain  flowers,  nor  the  scent 
of  desert  dust,  dry  and  untainted  by  man,  the  sharp 
smell  of  camps, — bacon  cooking,  wet  canvas,  horse 
blankets  and  leather; — bitter-sweet  sage,  sweet  to  the 

nostril  and  keen  to  the  tongue,  nor  the  tang  of  new-cut 

308 


NORTH  OF  GALLUP  309 

lumber,  frosty  nights,  and  fresh-water  lakes,  glacier 
cooled;  the  reek  of  an  Indian  village,  redolent  of  doe- 
skin and  dried  meats  hanging  in  the  sun ; — I  am  homesick 
for  them!  And  so  is  everyone  who  has  found  good 
hunting  northwest  of  the  Rio  Grande. 

We  again  found  ourselves  on  the  old  Spanish  Trail, 
which  leads  into  Utah  through  Farmington  and  a  bit  of 
Colorado.  Most  of  the  way  it  was  desert,  a  wicked 
collection  of  chuck-holes,  high  centers,  tree-roots,  gullies 
and  sand  drifts.  This  was  a  district  once  highly  re- 
spected and  avoided,  for  a  few  miles  further  north  lay 
the  four  state  boundaries.  Men  who  find  proximity  to  a 
state  line  convenient  were  twice  as  well  suited  with  the 
Four  Corners,  reckoning  arithmetically, — or  four  times, 
geometrically.  Its  convenience  probably  increased  by 
the  same  ratio  their  abandoned  character  over  other 
abandoned  characters  who  had  only  two  states  in  which 
to  play  hop-scotch  with  the  sheriff.  No  doubt  most  of 
these  professional  outlaws  have  disappeared,  picked  off 
by  the  law's  revenge,  or  by  private  feud.  We  should 
have  liked  to  explore  this  region  further,  but  sundown 
was  too  near  for  this  to  be  a  judicious  act,  and  while  we 
were  not  always  discreet,  we  were  at  times. 

In  late  afternoon  we  looked  ahead  of  us,  and  saw  in 
this  sea  of  sand  two  schooners  with  purple  sails  full 
rigged,  rosy  lighted  by  the  setting  sun.  They  tilted 
gracefully  on  a  northerly  course,  the  nearer  one  seeming 
to  loom  as  high  above  the  other  as  a  sloop  above  a  little 
catboat.  No  other  landmark  lifted  above  the  long  hori- 
zon save  the  low  hills  on  our  west  which  at  Canyon  de 
Chelley  had  been  east  of  us.  Only  when  we  traveled 
five,  ten,  fifteen  miles  did  we  realize  the  magnitude  of 


310  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

these  giant  ships  of  rock,  made  so  light  by  the  reflection 
of  sand  and  sun  that  the  sails  seemed  cut  out  of  amethyst 
tissue  rather  than  carved  of  granite.  When  we  passed 
the  first  rock,  which  had  seemed  so  high,  it  took  its 
proper  place,  and  it  became  the  catboat,  while  the  real 
Shiprock,  we  saw,  far  excelled  the  other  in  size  and 
in  its  likeness  to  a  ship.  With  the  afterglow,  the  desert 
became  gray  and  the  ship  golden,  with  purple  edged  sails. 
At  -dark  the  desert  became  blue -black,  and,  the  sihip 
melted  into  a  gossamer  mist,  looming  higher  as  we  neared 
it.  It  must  be  five  or  six  hundred  feet  high,  and  so 
precipitous  that  nobody  has  ever  scaled  its  outspread 
wings,  though  the  Human  Fly  came  from  New  York  for 
the  purpose,  and  returned  defeated. 

As  we  went  on  in  this  intensely  lonely  country,  out  of 
the  darkness  came  an  odor  that  a  moment  before  had 
not  been,  resembling  jasmine  or  syringa,  but  fresher  than 
either.  We  stopped  the  car,  expecting  to  find  ourselves 
in  the  midst  of  a  garden.  But  all  around  was  only  grease- 
wood  and  sage,  sage  and  greasewood.  The  twigs  we 
plucked  to  smell  broke  off  brittle  in  our  hands.  We 
drove  on,  much  perplexed. 

Just  before  we  reached  the  town  of  Shiprock,  the  air 
lifted  with  a  new  freshness.  We  sniffed,  and  raised  our 
heads  as  horses  do.  We  were  reminded  of  home.  It 
was  water !  We  had  not  smelled  water  for  two  dry  days. 
In  an  instant  we  were  rolling  down  shady  avenues,  and 
saw  lights  reflected  on  a  river,  and  crossed  into  a  town 
so  dense  with  green  grass  and  arched  trees  and  roses  in 
bloom  that  it  seemed  like  some  old  place  in  New  Eng- 
land. Then  the  mysterious  odor,  stronger  and  of  un- 
earthly sweetness,  came  again.  It  blew  from  a  field  of 


NORTH  OF  GALLUP  311 

alfalfa  in  bloom,  with  the  night  dew  distilling  its  hea- 
venly freshness.  We  must  have  been  several  miles  away 
when  its  perfume  first  reached  us  in  the  desert. 

A  car  halted  in  the  road  before  the  superintendent's 
house, — for  Shiprock  is  a  Navajo  agency, — and  as  we 
stopped,  a  man  and  his  wife  exchanged  names  and  desti- 
nations with  us  in  the  darkness.  They  were  from  Cali- 
fornia, going  to  Yellowstone.  When  we  told  them  our 
home  town  they  said  the  usual  thing.  We  discussed 
plans  for  the  night.  They  had  none,  neither  had  we.  It 
was  nearly  midnight. 

"That's  the  agent's  house,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
only  light  in  town,  ubut  they  won't  take  you  there.  We 
just  asked.  The  lady's  all  alone,  but  she  might  give  you 
directions  for  a  hotel." 

As  we  went  toward  the  house,  an  Indian  policeman  in 
uniform  shadowed  us,  wearing  the  kind  of  helmet  the 
police  used  to  wear  in  Boston  and  rural  plays.  He  seemed 
to  alternate  between  a  desire  to  protect  us  against  Ship- 
rock,  and  Shiprock  against  us,  his  grave  manner  signi- 
fying he  would  do  justice  to  both  parties. 

The  agent's  wife  directed  us  to  a  hotel,  which  she 
refused  to  indorse,  and  when  we  left,  she  called  after  us, 
-"You  aren't  alone?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "all  alone,  ever  since  we  left  Bos- 
ton." And  then,  to  save  time,  "We're  a  long  ways  from 
home" 

"I  don't  know  what  accommodations  you'd  find  at  the 
hotel,"  she  said.  "You'd  better  stay  here.  Being  alone, 
I  didn't  want  to  take  in  any  men,  but  I'd  be  glad  to  have 
your  company." 


312 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


uDid  you  find  a  hotel?"  asked  the  kind  man  in  the 
road,  as  we  returned  for  our  baggage. 

"Yes, — here,"  we  said,  "not  having  a  man  with  us." 

"You  have  the  luck,"  he  answered,  and  his  wife 
groaned,  and  asked  him  as  wives  will,  what  good  it  did 
her  to  have  him  along. 

Our  kind  hostess  gave  us  a  pleasant  room,  and  carte 
blanche  to  the  icebox,  for  I  believe  we  had  no  supper 
that  night.  It  may  have  been  partly  our  kind  reception, 
but  not  entirely  so,  that  made  Shiprock  seem,  when  we 
inspected  it  next  day,  one  of  the  most  attractive  and 
sensibly  conducted  agencies  we  had  visited.  It  is  beau- 
tifully situated  where  our  old  friend  the  San  Juan  river 
joins  another  stream,  and  turns  the  desert  into  the  green- 
est of  farm  lands.  Roses  bloomed  about  each  neat, 
white-picketed  house,  big  trees  shaded  the  road,  and  the 
lawns  were  like  velvet.  Happy  looking  Navajo  chil- 
dren in  middy  blouses  played  about  the  schoolyards  or 
splashed  in  the  big  swimming  pool  devoted  exclusively  to 
them.  The  teachers  and  agents  whom  we  met  lacked 
that  attitude  of  contempt  for  their  charges  we  had  some- 
times observed  in  other  Indian  schools.  I  have  heard 
teachers  who  could  hardly  speak  without  butchering  the 
President's  English  sneer  at  their  Indian  charges  for  re- 
verting to  their  own  tongue. 

The  day  of  our  stay  on  the  reservation  an  interesting 
event  took  place.  Once  a  year  the  government  requires 
all  Navajos  to  bring  in  their  sheep  to  be  dipped  in  a 
strong  solution  of  lye  and  tobacco,  to  prevent  vermin 
and  disease.  In  the  early  morning  the  air  was  filled  with 
a  thousand  bleatings.  The  dust  rose  thick  from  count- 
less hoofs  driven  to  the  sheep-dip.  The  dip  was  situ- 


NAVAJO  SHEEP-DIPPING  AT  SHIPROCK. 
Fat  Navajo  squaws  pulled  the  unhappy  beasts  to  the  trough  by  the  horns. 


NORTH  OF  GALLUP  313 

ated  against  great  yellow  buttes,  and  in  the  distance  the 
ship  rock  sailed  in  lilac  light.  Fat  Navajo  squaws  with 
their  jewels  tied  to  their  belt  for  safe  keeping  pulled  the 
unhappy  beasts  to  the  trough  by  the  horns,  where  they 
completely  submerged  them,  with  the  aid  of  an  Indian 
wielding  a  two-pronged  staff. 

"Get  in  and  help,"  said  an  old  squaw  to  me.  Accord- 
ingly I  grasped  a  rough  horn,  and  discovered  it  took 
strength  and  some  skill  to  keep  the  animals  from  being 
trampled,  as  they  went  down  the  trough.  Once  a  tre- 
mendous chatter  arose,  as  a  result  of  the  squaws  count- 
ing their  sheep  and  finding  one  missing.  The  poor  crea- 
ture was  discovered,  crushed  and  bleeding  at  the  bottom 
of  the  runway.  Immediately  he  was  fished  out,  and 
borne  off  by  two  women  whom  I  followed  to  watch. 
One  held  the  carcass,  while  the  other  pulled  from  her 
woven  belt  a  long,  glittering  knife.  In  twenty  minutes 
the  sheep  was  skinned,  dressed  and  cut  into  neat  chops 
and  loins,  and  the  incident  was  closed.  The  women  are 
sole  owners  and  custodians  of  the  sheep-herds.  The 
gathering  that  day  would  have  rejoiced  the  heart  of  any 
feminist.  With  one  old  hag  I  noticed  a  beautiful  little 
Navajo  child  dressed  in  the  usual  velvet  jacket,  flowing 
skirt  and  silver  ornaments.  Two  lumps  of  turquoise 
were  strung  in  her  ears.  Her  eyes,  like  her  skin,  were 
golden  brown  and  her  hair  bright  yellow.  Her  unusual 
complexion  added  to  her  beauty  made  her  a  pet  of  the 
entire  village,  and  the  idol  of  her  old  grandmother.  If 
she  was  an  Albino,  the  lack  of  pigment  took  a  more 
becoming  form  than  among  the  Hopis. 

Mesa  Verde  National  Park  is  only  a  short  day's  run 
from  Shiprock.  It  took  us  into  the  edge  of  Colorado,  a 


3H  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

beautiful,  loveable  state,  endowed  with  sense,  moun- 
tains, good  roads  and  every  kind  of  natural  blessing.  It 
has  a  flavor  all  its  own;  more  mellow  than  the  states  of 
the  West  coast,  less  prim  than  those  on  its  eastern  bor- 
ders. Our  way  led  between  two  mountain  ranges,  one  in 
Utah,  the  other  in  Colorado,  with  a  long  sweep  of 
prairies  curling  like  waves  at  their  base.  We  passed  a 
corner  of  the  Ute  country,  and  saw  at  a  spring  a  group 
of  those  gaily  dressed,  rather  sullen  people,  ample 
bodied  and  round  headed.  Each  tribe  differs  from  the 
others,  and  these  bore  a  look  more  like  the  Northern 
tribes  than  those  we  had  already  met. 

As  the  Colorado  mountains  came  nearer,  I  remem- 
bered the  words  of  a  fellow  traveler,  spoken  on  the 
slippery  drive  to  Taos,  New  Mexico,  which  had  haunted 
me  ever  since. 

"This  is  steep  enough,  but  wait  till  you  climb  Mesa 
Verde.  The  engineer  cut  a  road  straight  up  the  moun- 
tain to  the  top,  with  as  few  switchbacks  and  as  little  grad- 
ing as  he  could.  It  is  so  narrow  that  you  have  to  tele- 
phone your  arrival  when  you  reach  the  base  of  the  hill, 
and  they  shut  off  all  downward  traffic  till  you  report  at 
the  Park." 

We  were  both  by  this  time  inured  to  horizontal  fever, 
and  could  steer  quite  debonairly  within  an  inch  of  a 
thousand  foot  drop,  but  we  "figured,"  as  they  say  out 
West,  that  we  had  about  reached  our  limit,  and  if  we 
were  to  encounter  anything  more  vertiginous,  something 
might  happen.  I  don't  say  we  dreaded  Mesa  Verde,  but 
I  will  admit  we  speculated  over  our  prospects. 

"Heavens!  Do  they  expect  us  to  climb  that?"  ex- 
claimed Toby  when  we  sighted  the  beginning  of  the 


NORTH  OF  GALLUP  315 

twenty-six  mile  road  to  the  Park.  A  mountain  stood  on 
its  hind  legs  before  us,  and  pawed  the  air.  The  white 
gash  of  road  leading  uncompromisingly  up  its  side 
showed  us  all  too  well  what  to  expect.  At  the  summit,  a 
naked  erosion  rose  like  Gibraltar  for  a  hundred  feet 
from  its  green  setting.  Whether  we  should  have  to  con- 
quer that  bit  of  masonry  we  did  not  know,  but*  if  we  had 
to,  I  knew  our  chances  were  not  good.  I  clung  to  the 
story  I  had  heard  of  a  one-armed  girl  who  had  driven  a 
Ford  to  the  top,  and  then  collapsed.  We  ought  to  do  at 
least  as  well,  we  reasoned,  reserving  the  right  to  collapse 
on  arrival.  At  the  base  of  the  hill  I  telephoned  the  super- 
intendent of  the  Park,  at  a  switchboard  by  the  roadside, 
as  commanded  by  placard. 

"Come  ahead,  and  'phone  at  the  top,"  he  said.  His 
voice  was  most  matter-of-fact.  From  that  moment,  anti- 
climax reigned.  Roads  are  never  as  bad  as  report  makes 
them,  and  this  besides  being  far  less  narrow  than  many 
mountain  passes  we  had  been  through,  was  beautifully 
graded  on  the  turns,  and  in  excellent  condition.  We 
passed  several  steep  ravines  at  curves, — one  where  a 
car  had  overturned  the  week  previous, — but  none  was  as 
bad  as  we  had  been  led  to  expect.  Thanks  to  the  sane 
regulation  making  it  a  one  way  road  we  had  nothing  to 
fear  from  traffic.  Valleys,  blue  and  red  with  a  magnifi- 
cent sweep  of  flowers,  dropped  down,  down,  and  new 
mountains  rose  from  unexpected  coverts.  We  circled  the 
one  we  were  on,  pausing  at  the  summit  for  the  view 
over  the  emerald  slopes  far  below.  We  reached  the  base 
of  our  Gibraltar,  but  saw  on  nearer  approach  that  we 
could  no  more  have  climbed  it  then  we  could  climb  Wash- 
ington Monument  on  the  outside.  Instead  we  rounded 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 

it,  and  dipped  up  and  down  another  hillside,  overlooking 
an  eastern  valley.  Here  the  road  was  delightfully 
planned  so  that  we  could  look  far  ahead  over  our  course, 
and  coast  or  climb  without  fearing  the  next  turn.  Well 
named  is  the  Park,  so  surprisingly  green  after  the  desert. 
In  an  hour  and  three-quarters  we  had  covered  the  twenty- 
six  miles  to  the  inn.  This,  we  were  told  by  the  stage 
drivers,  was  fairly  near  record  time. 

We  met  a  man  soon  after  our  arrival,  to  whom  we 
mentioned  that  we  had  recently  come  from  the  Rainbow 
Bridge. 

uOh,"  said  he,  "were  you  in  the  party  where  the  mule 
threw  the  man  off  into  the  cactus?" 

News  travels  like  that  in  the  West. 

Mesa  Verde  is  what  is  called  a  three  days'  park.  One 
could  easily  spend  three  weeks  or  three  months  there 
with  profit  or  delight,  camping  in  its  delicious  forests  and 
riding  over  its  mountainsides.  But  in  three  days  all  that 
is  to  be  seen  of  cliff  dwellings  and  prehistoric  ruins  can  be 
inspected  without  hurry,  unless  of  course  one  is  an  archae- 
ologist. Here  are  most  elaborate  ruins,  carefully  re- 
stored, whose  many  kivas  indicate  a  prosperous  and 
flourishing  community.  Long  canyons,  thickly  wooded 
and  enameled  with  wild-flowers  are  lined  on  both  sides 
with  these  airy  villages.  A  small  museum  of  articles 
found  in  excavating,  displayed  in  the  main  house,  greatly 
aids  the  mere  amateur. 

We  were  fortunate  in  having  a  guide  who  knew  his 
park  like  a  book.  Forsaking  routine  paths  and  steps, 
he  hoisted  us  up  and  down  the  paths, — mere  niches  they 
were, — worn  in  the  solid  wall  by  those  agile  Indians. 
It  seems  certain  that  at  that  time  no  cliff-mothers  in- 


CLIFF-DWELLINGS,  MESA  VERDE  PARK,  COLORADO. 
Here  are  most  elaborate  ruins,  carefully  restored. 


NORTH  OF  GALLUP  317 

dulged  in  the  embonpoint  affected  by  so  many  of  their 
descendants.  An  inch  too  much  of  girdle  in  the  rigjit, — 
or  the  wrong, — place,  would  have  sent  them  hurtling 
down  into  the  canyon,  as  they  climbed  those  sheer  walls. 
Being  one  of  the  oldest  known  cliff  communities,  Mesa 
Verde  is  much  more  carefully  restored  than  those  we  saw 
in  the  Canyon  de  Chelley  and  in  Segi  Canyon.  More 
accessible  and  compact  than  other  ruins,  Mesa  Verde 
combines  the  historic, — or  prehistoric, — interest  with 
the  needs  of  vacation  seekers  who  wish  a  few  luxuries 
with  their  cliff  dwellings.  Although  the  hotel  is  of  the 
simplest  sort,  it  is  well  run.  Those  who  wish  to  camp 
may  do  so  by  obtaining  a  permit.  Tent  houses  are  pro- 
vided as  a  compromise  between  camping  and  hotel  life 
for  those  who  want  to  feel  they  are  roughing  it,  but  pre- 
fer a  floor  and  a  mattress  between  them  and  the  insect 
world. 

We  entered  the  Mormon  country  not  long  after  we  left 
Mesa  Verde  and  turned  north  again  into  Utah.  Here 
once  more  we  had  desert,  villainous  prairie  roads,  utter 
loneliness,  with  vista  of  foothills  of  the  Rockies  guarding 
our  route.  We  drove  hard  and  camped  where  midnight 
found  us,  or,  too  weary  to  spread  our  tent,  went  still  fur- 
ther to  the  next  one  of  the  miserably  equipped  towns  in 
rural  Utah,  where  we  had  the  benefit  of  rickety  bed- 
springs  and  stifling  bedrooms.  It  was  cherry  time,  and 
each  warm  day  we  blessed  Brigham  Young  for  his  fore- 
sight in  encouraging  the  growth  of  fruit  trees.  The  Mor- 
mons were  the  earliest  in  the  West  to  understand  the  use 
of  irrigation.  Their  villages,  slatternly  as  to  buildings, 
nestle  in  lanes  and  avenues  of  poplar  and  cottonwood, 
and  their  gardens  bear  all  manner  of  fruit.  They  are 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 

good  providers,  too,  in  this  rural  desert,  and  at  noon 
sharp,  when  we  stopped  doubtfully  at  some  unpainted 
shack,  bearing  the  sign  Cafe,  we  were  astonished  at  the 
abundance  of  wholesome  country  food  spread  on  the 
long  table.  We  sat  among  a  group  of  overalled  men, 
who  ate  in  silence,  except  for  the  sounds  of  mastication. 

"Help  yourself,  Brother  Smith.  Brother  Thacher,  you 
aint  eatin'  today,"  the  ample  goddess  who  presided  over 
the  stove  in  the  corner  of  the  room  would  encourage  her 
patrons.  At  the  close  of  the  meal,  whether  we  had  con- 
sumed one  or  six  helpings  of  the  cheese,  the  meat  pie,  the 
ham,  the  raspberries  and  stoned  cherries  with  rich  coun- 
try cream  in  quart  pitchers,  the  apple  pie  and  chocolate 
cake,  we  wiped  our  fingers  on  napkins  well  used  to  such 
treatment,  paid  our  "six  bits"  and  departed,  our  part- 
ing "Good-day"  being  answered  with  caution. 

Through  such  country,  uninhabited  for  long  stretches, 
we  were  driving  one  evening,  hoping  to  reach  Green 
River  forty  miles  north.  Though  with  filial  respect  we 
often  remembered  the  last  injunction  of  Toby's  parent, 
we  were  frequently  obliged  to  postpone  fulfilling  it  till 
a  more  convenient  occasion.  Tonight  we  had  to  choose 
between  making  a  barren  camp  in  open  prairie  and  push- 
ing on  to  the  nearest  hotel.  A  dry  camp  made  after  dark 
represents  the  height  of  discomfort,  so  we  chose  the  al- 
ternative. Our  route  lay  over  a  waste  of  sand, — that 
portion  of  the  desert  which  claims  central  Utah.  For 
several  miles  we  followed  the  wretched  little  prairie 
tracks,  but  finally,  to  our  great  joy,  we  struck  into  a  broad 
state  road  in  perfect  condition,  raised  above  the  floor  of 
the  desert  by  several  feet.  We  made  marvelous  speed. 


NORTH  OF  GALLUP  319 

Who  would  have  expected  to  find  a  boulevard  in  the 
heart  of  rural  Utah? 

Whoever  would,  was  doomed  to  speedy  disappoint- 
ment. Our  boulevard  seemed  to  lack  continuity;  several 
times  we  were  forced  to  forsake  it  and  make  detours  back 
over  the  trails.  Soon  our  highway,  which  was  leveled  an 
easy  grade  above  the  desert,  began  to  rise  in  the  air, 
until  in  the  pitch  dark  it  assumed  an  alarmingly  dizzy 
elevation.  About  the  same  time  the  marks  of  traffic 
faded.  We  passed  through  a  morass  of  crushed  stone, 
and  thence  into  thick  sand,  over  which  we  skidded  alarm- 
ingly toward  the  edge  of  the  bank.  Perhaps  we  were 
eighteen  or  twenty  feet  above  the  desert,  but  when  we 
veered  for  the  edge,  it  semed  like  a  hundred.  The  heavy 
sand  clung  to  our  wheels,  making  progress  hard  and  skid- 
ding easy.  We  passed  through  a  cut  with  heavy  banks 
on  both  sides,  and  in  front  a  black  shadow. 

"Why,  where's  the  road?"  exclaimed  Toby. 

There  was  none.  We  were  left  high  and  dry,  with  a 
sandhill  on  both  sides,  steep  banks  dropping  down  among 
rocks  and  gullies  to  the  desert,  a  yawning  hole  in  front 
with  a  precipitous  drop  of  twenty  feet,  and  two  feet  of 
leeway,  in  which  to  turn  our  car.  We  backed  cautiously 
down  the  side,  and  struck  a  boulder.  We  turned  forward 
a  few  inches,  and  came  upon  a  heap  of  sand.  Toby  got 
out,  and  directed  our  maneuvers,  inch  by  inch.  Finally 
we  had  the  car  broadside  to  the  jumping-off  place,  and 
there  we  stuck,  tilted  at  a  crazy  angle,  one  headlight 
almost  directly  above  the  other.  In  the  heavy,  untracked 
sand  we  could  not  move  an  inch. 

"Well,"  I  said  bitterly,  "here  we  spend  the  night. 
Twelve  miles  from  nowhere !" 


320  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

At  that  four  men  with  a  lantern  sprang  up  from  no- 
where. 

"How  kind  of  you  to  come,"  we  said  to  the  men,  as- 
suming they  were  there  to  rescue,  not  to  rob. 

"We  saw  your  headlights,"  answered  the  one  who  held 
the  lantern,  "and  from  the  way  they  were  slanted  we  con- 
cluded you  was  in  trouble  and  we  might  as  well  come  over. 
We're  working  on  the  new  state  road,  and  this  is  as  far 
as  it's  got.  Our  camp's  just  over  there,  and  Green 
River's  twelve  miles  further." 

Backing  and  filling,  with  their  four  brawny  shoulders 
to  the  wheels,  we  soon  got  the  car  out  of  the  sand  heap 
and  turned  about,  but  the  deep  sand  was  crowned  so  high 
that  for  a  stretch  we  skidded  along  at  so  sharp  an  angle 
that  only  the  tug  of  the  sand  kept  us  from  turning  turtle. 
Our  friends  put  us  on  our  way,  going  a  half  mile  out  of 
their  own  to  do  so. 

The  sleepy  clerk  at  Green  River  was  locking  the  hotel 
up  for  the  night  as  we  stopped  before  his  door. 

"My,  you're  in  luck,"  said  he.  "If  the  midnight  train 
hadn't  been  late  this  hotel  would  have  been  closed  up 
tight." 

Such  incidents,  happening  almost  daily,  began  to  give 
us  a  reckless  faith  in  our  luck,  or  our  guardian  angels,  or 
the  special  Providence  said  to  look  after  certain  types  of 
people,  whichever  you  may  choose  to  call  it.  Ministering 
angels  of  the  first  calibre  had  perfected  their  system  to 
give  instant  service  day  or  night.  They  thought  nothing 
of  letting  us  run  dry  of  gasoline  on  a  road  where  all 
morning  we  had  not  passed  a  single  car,  and  sending  us 
within  five  minutes  a  truck  carrying  a  barrel  of  the  useful 
fluid.  They  delighted  in  letting  us  drive  a  bit  too  fast 


NORTH  OF  GALLUP  321 

down  a  narrow  canyon,  where  a  blowout  from  our  ragged 
tires  would  have  mingled  our  bones  forever  with  the  "old 
lady's,"  arriving  scatheless  at  the  bottom  simultaneous- 
ly with  a  blowout  which  dragged  us,  standing,  across  the 
road.  Once  a  Ford,  driven  by  inexpert  and  slightly  be- 
fuddled Elks,  crashed  into  us  on  a  narrow  bridge,  with 
no  results  beyond  a  bent  canteen.  When  we  broke 
four  spring  leaves  at  dusk  in  a  lonesome  hamlet,  they 
placed  across  the  street  an  expert  German  blacksmith 
of  the  old  school,  who  did  not  object  to  night  hours, 
and  who  forged  us  new  springs  which  finally  outwore 
the  car.  By  happy  mistake,  they  took  us  down  pleasant 
by-paths  less  fortunate  tourists  who  went  by  Bluebook 
never  knew.  Altogether,  they  were  a  firm  of  remark- 
able reliability,  and  if  I  knew  their  address  I  should  pub- 
lish it.  But  they  preferred  to  do  good  anonymously. 

I  think  it  was  they  who  directed  us  through  the  Sho- 
shone  reservation  on  the  very  day  of  the  year  when  the 
tribe  held  its  important  ceremony,  the  Sun  Dance.  We 
reached  Fort  Hall,  the  Shoshone  agency,  one  morning, 
and  were  told  casually  of  a  dance  being  held  on  the  reser- 
vation, not  a  mile  out  of  our  way.  When  we  reached 
it  a  magnificent  Indian,  the  first  we  had  seen  who  could 
be  called  a  red  man,  (for  the  Southern  Indians  are  brown 
and  ochre  colored),  barred  our  path  on  horseback.  He 
knew  his  cerise  sateen  shirt  was  becoming,  even  without 
the  purple  necktie  he  wore.  It  gave  him  confidence  to 
demand  an  entrance  fee  of  $2.00 — an  entirely  impromp- 
tu idea  inspired  by  our  eagerness.  The  more  I  see  of  Lo 
the  Poor  Indian  the  more  I  am  convinced  that  he  is  poor 
only  for  lack  of  opportunity  to  exercise  his  talents.  How- 


322 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


ever,  the  dance  was  worth  the  money, — far  more  than 
some  other  barefoot  dances  I  have  seen. 

It  had  begun  when  we  arrived  on  the  scene,  in  fact,  it 
had  been  going  on  for  two  days.  Crowds  of  women, 
some  dressed  in  long  plaid  shawls  and  high  moccasins, 
others  in  starched  muslins  and  straw  hats;  bright-eyed 
papooses  slung  on  their  mother's  backs  in  beautiful  white 
doeskin  cradles;  majestic  chiefs  six  feet  tall  and  more  in 
high  pointed  Stetsons,  with  long  robes  of  cotton  sheet- 
ing, giddily  dyed,  wrapped  about  them,  circled  about  the 
dancers,  who  were  partly  screened  from  spectators  by 
the  green  branches  seen  in  so  many  Indian  dances. 
These  Shoshones  are  the  Indians  on  the  penny.  Grave, 
surly  giants  with  copper  skin,  coarse  jet  hair  and  high 
cheek  bones,  powerful,  with  a  hint  of  ugliness,  they  were 
another  race  from  the  laughing  brown  tribes  of  the  south. 
They  frowned  upon  our  camera,  and  finally  forbade  us, 
in  no  uncertain  manner,  to  use  it.  Even  the  insouciant 
Toby  paled  and  hastily  stuffed  her  camera  in  her  coat  as  a 
big  chief  made  a  threatening  lunge  at  it.  That  is  why 
all  our  photographs  of  the  Shoshones  are  taken  from  the 
rear. 

Old  women  trotted  to  and  fro  constantly  with  bunches 
of  sweet  grass  and  herbs,  which  they  laid  on  the  ground 
beside  the  resting  dancers,  who  used  them  to  dry  and 
refresh  their  exhausted  bodies.  A  group  of  old  men  in 
the  corner  beat  the  tom-tom,  squatting  to  their  task  like 
gnomes.  The  dancers,  naked  to  the  waist,  wore  a 
short  apron-like  garment  of  calico  or  blanket  below. 
Their  bodies,  old  and  young,  were  lithe  and  stringy, — 
hardly  a  fat  man  among  them.  They  showed  much  ex- 


SHOSHONES  AT  SUN  DANCE,  FORT  HALL,  IDAHO. 
All  our  photographs  of  the  Shoshones  are  taken  from  the  rear. 


NORTH  OF  GALLUP  323 

haustion, — as  much  perhaps  on  this  second  day  of  the 
dance  as  white  men  not  in  training  would  after  half  an 
hour  of  similar  exercise.  Many  of  them  were  past  middle 
age.  One  was  white-haired  and  wrinkled,  but  with  mag- 
nificent muscles  on  his  bare  chest  and  arms.  They  alter- 
nately rested  and  danced  in  groups,  so  that  the  dancing 
was  continuous.  Running  at  a  jog  trot  to  a  great  tree  in 
the  center,  decorated  with  elk  horns  and  a  green  branch, 
they  touched  this  tree  with  reverent  obeisances  and  a 
wild  upward  movement  of  body  and  head,  then  carried 
their  hand  from  it,  as  if  transferring  its  vitality  to  their 
knees,  their  breasts  and  their  heads.  For  the  three  days 
and  nights  the  dance  was  to  last,  they  would  neither  eat 
nor  drink. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  I  asked  a  very  modern  lady, 
dressed  in  flowered  organdy.  She  smiled  a  superior 
smile,  evidently  holding  no  longer  with  the  gods  of  her 
ancestors. 

"It's  a  dance  they  think  will  make  well  sick  people.  I 
do  not  know, — some  foolishness,  I  guess." 

A  tall  chief  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  wearing  a  scarlet 
shawl,  fanned  himself  with  a  lady's  fan  of  black  spangles 
and  gauze,  and  as  he  fanned  he  frowned  at  us,  muttering 
at  our  levity  in  talking  during  the  sacred  ceremonies.  He 
only  needed  a  rose  behind  his  ear  to  make  a  gaunt  Car- 
men of  him,  temper  and  all.  His  eyes  fell  menacingly 
on  Toby's  camera,  which  she  had  been  fingering,  and 
Toby-wise  she  turned  and  sauntered  off  as  if  she  hadn't 
seen  him,  though  I  imagine  her  knees  shook. 

From  the  not  too  friendly  Indians  we  could  get  no  fur- 
ther information  of  the  meaning  of  the  dance,  but  later  I 
discovered  we  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  witness  the 


324 


WESTWARD  HOBOES 


Sun  Dance.  During  the  winter,  when  sickness  falls  upon 
a  relative,  some  Indian  will  vow  to  organize  this  dance,  if 
health  should  return  to  the  sick  one.  The  whole  tribe 
comes  to  take  part  or  to  witness  the  dance.  The  par- 
ticipants refrain  from  food  or  drink  for  three  days,  sus- 
tained to  their  exertion  by  marvelous  nervous  energy  and 
real  religious  fervor.  Before  the  government  forbade 
the  practise  it  was  their  custom  to  cut  slits  in  their  breasts 
on  the  third  day  of  the  dance,  and  insert  rawhide  ropes, 
which  they  tied  to  the  tree,  throwing  themselves  back 
and  forth  regardless  of  the  torture,  until  the  rawhide 
broke  through  the  flesh. 

After  the  adobe  huts  and  hogans  of  the  Pueblos  and 
Navajos,  we  were  delighted  by  the  symmetrical  snow- 
white  tepee  of  the  Shoshone,  who  have  made  not  only 
an  art  but  a  ceremony  of  tepee  building.  Two  poles  are 
first  placed  on  the  ground,  butts  together.  Then  two 
poles  of  equal  length  are  placed  in  a  reversed  position. 
A  rope  of  pine  tree  fibre  is  then  woven  in  and  out,  over 
and  under  the  four  poles  near  the  top,  knotted  securely, 
with  long  ends  hanging.  The  old  custom  prescribed 
laying  out  the  camp  in  half  moon  shape,  each  doorway 
facing  the  point  where  the  sun  first  appears  on  the  hori- 
zon, shifting  with  the  season.  The  camp's  location  de- 
termined, the  squaws  raise  the  poles  slowly,  singing  the 
song  of  the  tepee  pole,  so  timed  that  it  comes  to  an  end 
with  the  upright  position  of  the  pole.  Two  women  then 
raise  the  tent  covering,  lacing  it  with  carved  and  polished 
twigs.  Two  smoke  flaps  above  the  entrance,  held  in 
place  by  other  poles,  are  moved  as  the  wind  varies,  to 
draw  the  smoke  rising  within  the  tent.  No  habitation  is 
more  knowingly  and  simply  devised  than  the  tepees, 


NORTH  OF  GALLUP  325 

which  are  both  warm  and  well  ventilated  even  in  winter. 
It  is  only  when  the  Indians  are  transplanted  to  the  white 
man's  houses  that  they  close  doors  and  windows,  light 
great  fires,  and  soon  become  soft,  and  fall  easy  victims 
of  the  white  plague. 

The  Shoshone  chiefs  made  no  objection  as  Toby 
snapped  a  beautiful  tepee  with  an  Indian  pony  tethered 
near,  but  when  she  smoothly  circled  it  upon  an  interested 
group  of  gaudy  giants,  one  of  them,  an  Isaiah  in  a  white 
robe,  touched  her  on  the  arm. 

"Move  on,  damn  quick,"  he  said. 

So  we  did. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ON  NATIONAL  PARKS   AND  GUIDES 

NOTHING  fit  to  print  can  be  said  of  the  Yellow- 
stone  Trail,  advertised  by  various  and  sundry  peo- 
ple as  a  "good  road  all  the  way,"  with  the  freedom  peo- 
ple take  with  other  people's  axles.  Here  and  there  are 
smooth  patches,  but  they  failed  to  atone  for  the  vicious- 
ness  of  the  greater  part  of  the  route  from  Salt  Lake  City 
to  the  Park.  Some  of  it  was  merely  annoying,  but  there 
were  places  where  we  had  to  keep  our  wits  about  us  every 
moment,  and  had  we  met  another  car,  so  narrow  and  tor- 
tuous and  hilly  were  the  last  few  miles,  we  should  have 
come  to  an  eternal  deadlock.  We  had  for  consolation  a 
view  of  some  lovely  lakes  grown  about  with  great  pines, 
and  in  the  open  stretches,  a  long  view  of  the  great  saw- 
toothed  Tetons  sheltering  Jackson's  Hole,  that  region 
beloved  of  Jesse  James  before  he  encountered  the  "dirty 
little  coward  who  shot  Mr.  Howard."  All  the  sinister 
Robin  Hoods  of  the  West  once  knew  the  supreme  ad- 
vantage of  Jackson's  Hole  as  a  place  of  temporary  with- 
drawal from  the  world  when  it  became  too  much  with 
them.  Now  it  is  infested  only  by  the  "dude"  sportsman, 
who  has  discovered  its  loveliness  without  as  yet  spoiling 
it.  A  tempting  sign-post  pointed  an  entrance  to  this  para- 
dise of  mountains  and  lakes,  but  we  had  been  warned  that 
the  road  there  was  far  worse  than  the  one  we  came  over, 
which  was  impossible,  so  we  gritted  our  teeth,  and  went 

on  to  the  Park. 

326 


ON  NATIONAL  PARKS  AND  GUIDES    327 

I  shall  not  attempt  a  description  of  Yellowstone  Park, 
for  the  same  reason  that  I  dodged  the  Grand  Canyon,  and 
because  its  bears,  mudholes,  geysers,  sulphur  basins, 
lakes,  Wiley  camps,  falls  and  dam,  its  famous  parti- 
colored canyon,  its  busses  and  Old  Faithful  were  well 
known  to  thousands  long  before  I  was  born. 

Yellowstone  used  to  be  known  less  attractively  among 
the  Indians  by  the  name  of  Stinking  Waters.  The  park  is 
still  circled  by  a  roundabout  trail,  made  by  superstitious 
tribes,  who  refused  to  approach  this  haunt  of  devils.  No- 
body who  has  stood  on  the  seething  ground  of  Norris 
Basin,  and  watched  its  manifold  evil  spirits,  hardly 
tethered,  burst  forth  and  sullenly  subside  can  fail  to  sym- 
pathize with  the  untutored  savage's  reaction.  If  we  had 
not  been  taught  a  smattering  of  chemistry  and  geology, 
we  should  undoubtedly  feel  as  he  did,  and  even  in  spite 
of  scientific  explanations,  the  place  seemed  too  personally 
malevolent  to  be  comfortable.  Think  of  a  God-fearing 
and  devil-respecting  mind  to  whom  science  was  unknown, 
looking  on  the  terrors,  the  inexplicable  manifestations 
this  Park  contains  for  the  first  time ! 

I  for  one,  who  rap  on  wood  and  walk  around  ladders, 
would  have  ridden  a  long  way  to  avoid  those  powerful 
spirits.  Yet  some  Indians  boldly  hunted  and  trapped  in 
what  was  once  a  most  happy  hunting  ground.  The 
overland  course  of  the  buffalo  lay  through  this  Park,  and 
wherever  the  buffalo  was,  the  Indian  was  sure  to  follow. 
Yellowstone  was  the  refuge  of  Chief  Joseph,  of  the  Nez 
Perces,  in  his  resistance  against  Howard  and  United 
States  troops. 

Everyone  ought  to  see  Yellowstone  at  least  once.  No- 
where else  are  so  many  extraordinary  freaks  in  so  con- 


328  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

venient  and  beautiful  a  setting.  The  freaks  leave  you  as 
bewildered  as  the  Whatisit's  used  to,  in  the  sideshows  of 
your  youth.  Before  the  last  paint  pot  and  boiling  spring 
are  investigated,  the  average  tourist  is  in  a  state  of  be- 
wildered resentment  at  Nature  for  putting  it  over  on  him 
so  frequently.  Besides,  his  feet  ache,  and  he  is  stiff 
from  climbing  in  and  out  that  yellow  bus. 

Everyone  ought  to  see  Yellowstone  at  least  twice.  The 
second  time  he  will  forget  the  freaks  and  geysers  and 
busses  running  on  schedule,  and  go  if  possible  in  his  own 
car,  with  his  own  horse,  or  on  his  own  feet.  He  will  take 
his  time  on  the  Cody  Trail,  now  I  believe,  a  part  of  the 
Park  but  until  recently  outside  its  limits.  Here  he  will 
see  what  is  perhaps  the  most  glorious  natural  scenery  in 
Yellowstone,  great  pointed  needles  rising  from  gigantic 
cliffs,  deep  ravines,  and  endless  forests,  pretty  little  inter- 
vales and  ideal  camping  and  fishing  nooks.  Or  further  in, 
beyond  Mt.  Washburn  and  the  Tower  Falls  where  com- 
paratively few  go,  he  will  find  deep  groves  and  gorgeous 
mountain  scenery.  Beyond  Yellowstone  Lake  he  can 
penetrate  to  the  benign  Tetons  walling  the  Park  to  the 
southeast.  He  can  take  his  own  "grub"  and  horses,  and 
lose  sight  of  hotels  and  schedules  for  a  month,  if  he  likes. 
He  is  not  required,  as  at  Glacier,  to  hire  a  guide  if  he 
wishes  to  camp.  Yellowstone's  chief  charm  to  me  is  not 
so  much  its  beauty  nor  its  wonders  as  that  it  is,  pre- 
eminently, the  People's  Park.  Founded  the  earliest  of 
any  national  park,  when  outdoor  life  was  more  of  a 
novelty  than  it  is  today,  and  far  less  organized  a  sport, 
it  follows  a  laisser  filler  course.  And  the  people  ap- 
preciate and  make  use  of  it.  Whole  families  camp  from 
one  end  to  the  other  of  the  Park,  using  its  open-air 


CAMPIXG  NEAR  YELLOWSTONE  PARK. 


ON  NATIONAL  PARKS  AND  GUIDES   329 

ovens  to  cook  the  fish  which  they  catch  in  its  lakes  and 
streams.  They  know  far  more  of  its  charm  than  the 
tourists  who  buy  their  five-day  excursions  from  the  rail- 
roads, and  don't  move  a  hand  to  feed  or  convey  them- 
selves from  the  time  they  enter  at  Gardiner  to  the  time 
they  leave  at  Cody. 

I  have  had  experience  both  ways,  once  as  a  personally 
conducted  tourist  and  once  as  a  human  being.  With  our 
own  car  we  covered  the  sight-seeing  far  more  easily  and 
quickly  than  by  bus,  with  the  advantage  of  being  able  to 
linger  as  long  as  we  pleased  over  the  fascinating  mud- 
holes  blub-blubbing  restfully  by  a  tardily  performing 
geyser,  or  in  some  out-of-the-way  forest  where  the  trip- 
per never  drags  his  dusty  feet.  Cars  herd  together  in 
enticing  groves,  and  their  owners  exchange  destinations 
and  food  and  confidences  about  their  offspring  with  an  un- 
suspiciousness  lacking  at  the  big  hotels.  Toby  and  I 
proved  the  efficacy  of  the  old  adage  about  the  early  bird 
catching  the  worm,  one  morning  when  we  camped  near 
the  Great  Falls.  Our  wide-awake  neighbors  from  the 
wide-awake  West  got  up  and  caught  the  worms,  then 
caught  the  fish,  while  their  slug-abed  Eastern  neighbors 
lay  in  their  tents  till  the  sun  was  high.  When  we  emerged, 
they  presented  us  with  their  surplus  of  four  large  trout, 
crisply  fried  in  cornmeal  and  still  piping  hot.  The  early 
bird  has  my  sincere  endorsement  every  time,  so  long  as  I 
do  not  have  to  be  one. 

Still  I  think  some  improvements  could  be  made  in 
Yellowstone.  I  never  go  there  without  getting  com- 
pletely exhausted  chasing  geysers, — rushing  from  one 
which  should  have  spouted  but  didn't,  in  time  to  reach 
the  other  end  of  the  Park  just  too  late  to  see  another  go 


330  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

off,  only  to  miss  a  magnificent  eruption  somewhere  else. 
Or  else  I  arrive,  to  learn  that  some  geyser  which  managed 
to  keep  its  mouth  shut  for  a  decade  went  off  with  a  bang 
just  yesterday,  and  another  rare  one  is  scheduled  for  the 
week  after  I  leave. 

They  really  need  a  good  young  efficiency  engineer 
to  rearrange  the  schedule  of  geysers  according  to  loca- 
tion, so  that  one  could  progress  easily  and  naturally 
from  one  to  the  other.  One  first  class  geyser  should  per- 
form every  day.  Then  the  bears  ought  to  be  organized. 
You  are  always  meeting  someone  who  just  saw  the  cutest 
little  black  cub  down  the  road,  but  when  you  hurry  back 
he  has  departed.  So  with  the  grizzlies ;  they  never  come 
out  to  feed  on  the  tempting  hotel  garbage  the  evenings 
you  are  in  the  neighborhood.  Only  Old  Faithful  keeps 
up  her  performances  every  two  hours,  as  if  she  realized 
that  without  her  sense  of  responsibility  and  system  the 
Park  would  go  all  to  pieces.  But  you  can't  work  a  will- 
ing geyser  to  death,  which  is  what  is  happening  to  Old 
Faithful.  They  ought  to  arrange  to  have  some  geyser 
with  an  easy  schedule, — say  the  one  which  goes  off  every 
twenty  years, — stop  loafing  on  the  job,  and  give  Old 
Faithful  a  much  deserved  vacation. 

Having  "done"  Yellowstone  far  more  comfortably 
with  the  car  in  three  days  than  we  could  have  in  six  with- 
out it,  we  left  on  the  fourth  day  for  Glacier.  The  road 
improved  vastly  as  we  entered  Montana.  Both  the  Red 
and  Yellowstone  Trails  were  well  made  and  kept  in 
excellent  condition.  We  skimmed  over  a  beautiful  coun- 
try. Bold  and  free  hills,  soft  brown  in  color  and  the  tex- 
ture of  velours  spread  below  us.  The  road  curved  just 
enough  for  combined  beauty  and  safety,  and  was  well 


GRAND  CANYON,  YELLOWSTONE  PARK. 


ON  NATIONAL  PARKS  AND  GUIDES    331 

marked  most  of  the  way.  We  mistakenly  chose  the 
shorter  route  to  Glacier  Park  entrance,  instead  of  taking 
the  more  roundabout  but  far  more  beautiful  drive 
through  Kalispell.  It  is  a  mistake  most  motorists  make 
sooner  or  later,  in  the  fever  to  save  time.  But  to 
compensate  we  had  a  glimpse  of  Browning,  half  Cana- 
dian, its  streets  full  of  Indians,  half-breeds  and  cowboys 
dressed  almost  as  gayly  as  the  redmen  and  their  squaws. 
Some  garage  helper  there  made  the  usual  mistake  of 
saying  "left"  and  pointing  right,  with  the  result  that  our 
prairie  road  suddenly  vanished  and  we  were  left  in  the 
midst  of  a  ploughed  track  which  had  not  yet  fulfilled  its 
intention  of  becoming  a  road.  For  the  next  twelve  miles 
to  the  Park  we  went  through  wild  gyrations,  now  leaping 
stumps,  now  dropping  a  clear  two  feet  or  more,  or  tilting 
above  a  deep  furrow  or  a  tangle  of  roots.  Once  more  we 
marveled  at  the  enduring  powers  of  the  staunch  old  lady. 
Glacier  Park  is  not  primarily  a  motorist's  park,  as  is 
Yellowstone.  An  excellent  highway  runs  outside  the 
Park  along  the  range  of  bold  peaks  that  guard  the  Black- 
feet  reservation,  and  an  interior  road  connects  the  en- 
trance with  St.  Mary's  Lake  and  Many  Glaciers,  the  rad- 
iating point  for  most  of  the  trail  rides.  To  run  a  ma- 
chine past  these  barriers  of  solid  peaks  would  be  nearly 
impossible,  yet  there  are  still  extensions  of  the  mileage 
of  motoring  roads  which  can  and  probably  will  be  made. 
Tourists  with  their  own  cars  can  do  as  we  did,  cover  what 
roads  are  already  accessible,  then  leave  their  car  at  Many 
Glaciers.  There  they  can  take  the  many  trail  trips,  either 
afoot  or  on  horseback,  over  the  glorious  passes  from 
which  the  whole  world  may  be  seen ;  climb  ridges  and  cross 
mountain  brooks,  ice  cold  from  melting  glaciers ;  or  look 


332  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

down  from  Gunsight  or  Grinnell  or  Mt.  Henry  'into 
passes  where  chain  after  chain  of  exquisite  lakes  lie  half 
a  mile  below. 

Nowhere  else  have  I  seen  such  a  wilderness  of  various 
kinds  of  beauty,  dizzy  ravines  and  dainty  nooks,  peaks 
and  precipices  with  a  hundred  feet  of  snow  and  unmelted 
ice  packed  about  them,  and  the  other  side  of  the  moun- 
tain glowing  with  dog-tooth  violets,  or  blue  with  acres  of 
forget-me-nots.  Fuzzy  white-topped  Indian  plumes  bor- 
der the  snow.  Icebergs  float  on'lakes  just  beyond  them. 
Mountain  goats  make  white  specks  far  up  a  wall  of  gran- 
ite, and  deer  cross  one's  path  in  the  lowlands,  which  are 
a  tangle  of  vines  and  flowers  in  the  midst  of  pine  forests. 
Over  a  narrow  ridge  dividing  two  valleys,  each  linking 
lakes  till  they  fade  into  the  blue  of  hill  and  sky,  we  ride 
to  an  idyllic  pasture  surrounded  by  mountain  peaks,  for 
nowhere  in  the  Park,  again  unlike  Yellowstone,  can  you 
go  without  being  in  the  shadow  of  some  benign  giant. 
There  is,  as  the  parched  Arizonans  say,  "a  world  of 
water," — little  trickles  of  streams  far  up  toward  the  sky, 
melting  from  aeon-old  glaciers  which  freeze  again  above 
them;  roaring  swashbuckling  rivers  and  cascades,  such 
as  you  see  near  Going-to-the-Sun,  and  the  double  falls  of 
Two  Medicine;  placid  sun-flecked  little  pools,  reflecting 
only  the  woods,  broad  lakes  black  as  night,  mirroring 
every  ripple  and  stir  above  them,  lakes  so  cold  you  freeze 
before  you  can  wade  out  far  enough  to  swim,  yet  full  of 
trout;  and  belting  the  whole  park,  a  chain  of  long  lakes 
and  quiet  rivers. 

The  center  of  the  Park  is  the  corral  in  front  of  the  big 
hotel  at  Many  Glaciers,  where  Lake  McDermott  mirrors 
a  dozen  mountains.  From  this  point  trails  radiate  in  all 


GLACIER  PARK,  MONTANA. 
You  can  go  nowhere  in  the  park  without  being  in  the  shadow  of  some  benign  giant. 


ON  NATIONAL  PARKS  AND  GUIDES    333 

directions,  varying  in  length  from  three  hours  to  three 
days. 

Nature  is  nowhere  more  fresh  and  delightful  than 
when  seen  from  the  trails  of  Glacier  Park, — and  as  for 
human  nature!  I  don't  know  which  is  more  engrossing, 
—the  tourist  or  the  guides.  Personally  I  lean  toward  the 
guides,  for  the  subtler  flavor  of  personality  is  theirs. 
They  can  be  unconsciously  funny  without  being  ridiculous, 
which  the  tourist  cannot  be.  And  they  have  an  element 
of  romance,  real  or  carelessly  cultivated,  which  no  tourist 
has  to  any  other  tourist.  What  each  thinks  of  the  other 
you  hear  expressed  now  and  then. 

"You  mightn't  think  it,  but  some  of  those  chaps  are 
pretty  bright,"  said  a  lecturer  of  a  Middle  Western  cir- 
cuit to  me,  as  he  tried  to  mount  his  horse  from  the 
right. 

"They  sent  us  over  that  trail  with  a  dozen  empties  and 
twenty  head  of  tourists,"  I  heard  one  guide  tell  another, 
with  an  unconsciousness  that  cut  deep. 

Every  morning  at  eight  the  riderless  horses  come 
galloping  down  the  road  to  Many  Glaciers,  urged  on  by 
a  guide  whose  feelings,  judging  by  his  riding,  seem  to  be 
at  a  boiling  point.  In  a  half  hour  the  tourists  straggle 
out,  some  in  formal  riding  clothes,  some  in  very  informal 
ones,  and  some  dressed  as  they  think  the  West  expects 
every  man  to  dress.  The  assembled  guides  with  wary 
glances  "take  stock"  of  their  day's  "outfit," — always  a 
gamble.  With  uncanny  instinct  they  sort  the  experienced 
riders  from  the  "doods"  and  lead  each  to  his  appropriate 
mount.  These  indifferent  looking,  lean,  swarthy  men  sit 
huddled  on  the  corral  rail,  and  exchange  quiet  mono- 
syllables which  would  mean  nothing  to  the  "dood"  if  he 


334  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

could  overhear.  With  their  tabloid  lingo  they  could  talk 
about  you  to  your  face, — though  most  of  them  are  too 
well-mannered, — and  from  their  gravely  courteous  words 
you  would  never  suspect  it.  Guides  are  past  masters  of 
overtones.  Their  wit  is  seldom  gay  and  robust, — always 
gently  ironic. 

I  saw  a  very  stout  lady  go  through  the  Great  Adven- 
ture of  mounting,  plunging  forward  violently  and  throw- 
ing her  right  leg  forward  over  the  pommel.  It  was  a  mas- 
terly effort  which  her  guide  watched  with  impassive 
face,  encouraging  her  at  the  finish  with  a  gently  whis- 
pered, "Fine,  lady!  And  next  time  I  bet  you  could  do  it 
even  better  by  throwing  your  leg  backwards." 

He  was  the  same  one  who  soothed  a  nervous  and  inex- 
perienced rider  who  dreaded  the  terrors  of  Swiftcurrent 
Pass. 

"Now,  lady,  just  hang  your  reins  over  the  horn,  and 
leave  it  to  the  horse." 

"Heavens,"  she  replied,  "  will  he  go  down  that  terrible 
trail  all  alone?" 

"Oh,  no,  lady.    He'll  take  you  right  along  with  him." 

There  is  always  one  tourist  whose  tardiness  holds  up 
the  party,  and  one  morning  it  chanced  I  was  that  one. 
The  guide — it  was  Bill — handed  me  my  reins  and  ad- 
justed my  stirrups  with  a  with-holding  air.  As  we  rode  up 
Gunsight,  I  heard  him  humming  a  little  tune.  A  word 
now  and  then  whetted  my  curiosity. 

"What  are  you  singing,  Bill?"  All  guides  have  mono- 
syllabic names,  as  Ed,  Mike,  Jack,  Cal,  and  Tex. 

Very  impersonally  Bill  repeated  the  song  in  a  cracked 
tenor : 


ON  NATIONAL  PARKS  AND  GUIDES    335 

"I  wrangled  my  horses,  was  feelin'  fine, 
Couldn't  git  my  doods  up  till  half  past  nine. 
I  didn't  cuss,  and  I  didn't  yell, 
But  we  lit  up  the  trail  like  a  bat  out  of  hell." 

UA  very  nice  song,  Bill.  Did  you  compose  it  your- 
self?" 

"No,  ma'am.     It's  just  a  song." 

They  have  a  way  of  taking  their  revenge,  neat  and 
bloodless,  but  your  head  comes  off  in  their  hand  just  the 
same.  Bill  had  a  honeymoon  couple  going  to  Sperry,  and 
taking  a  dislike  to  the  groom,  whom  he  thought  "too 
fresh,"  he  placed  him  at  the  tail  of  the  queue,  and  the 
bride,  who  was  pretty,  behind  himself.  The  sight  of 
Bill  chatting  gaily  with  his  bride  of  a  day,  and  his  bride 
chatting  gaily  with  Bill,  became  more  than  the  groom 
could  bear,  and  in  spite  of  resentful  glances  from  those  he 
edged  past  on  the  narrow  trail,  he  worked  his  way  pa- 
tiently up  to  a  position  behind  the  bride,  only  to  receive 
a  cold  glare  from  Bill,  and  the  words,  "Against  the  rules 
of  the  Park  to  change  places  in  line,  Mister."  Bill  was 
not  usually  so  punctilious  about  Park  rules,  but  the  groom 
did  not  know  this,  and  suffered  Bill  to  dismount  and  lead 
his  horse  back  to  the  rear,  after  which  he  returned  to 
his  conversation  with  the  pretty  bride.  This  play  contin- 
ued throughout  the  day  with  no  change  of  expression  or 
loss  of  patience  on  the  part  of  Bill.  Glacier  Park  is  no 
place  to  go  on  a  honeymoon. 

At  Glacier,  society  has  no  distinctions,  but  it  has  three 
divisions, — excluding,  of  course,  the  Blackfeet  Indians  to 
whom  the  Park  originally  belonged.  They  are  the 
"doods,"  the  guides,  and  the  "hash-slingers."  Each 


336  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

guide,  as  he  slants  lop-sidedly  over  a  mile  deep  cut-bank 
keeps  a  pleased  eye  on  some  lithe  figure  in  the  neatest  of 
boots  and  Norfolk  coats,  whom  he  has  picked  for  his 
"dood  girl/'  He  favors  her  with  a  drink  from  his  can- 
teen, long  anecdotes  about  his  "hoss,"  or  if  he  is  hard  hit 
and  she  is  a  good  rider,  with  offers  of  a  ride  on  his  "top- 
hoss."  But  when  he  has  helped  his  tourists  dismount, 
limping  and  sore  at  the  foot  of  a  twenty  mile  descent,  he 
gallops  his  string  of  "empties"  to  the  corral,  and  in  half 
an  hour  is  seen  roping  some  dainty  maiden  in  Swiss  cos- 
tume,— playing  his  tinkling  notes  on  the  Eternal  Tri- 
angle. 

When  they  do  cast  an  eye  in  your  direction  it  is  some- 
thing to  remember.  There  was  Tex, — or  was  his  name 
Sam? — who  took  us  up  to  Iceberg.  He  never  looked 
back  at  us,  nor  showed  any  of  the  kittenishness  common  to 
the  male  at  such  moments,  but  every  five  minutes  issued 
a  solitary  sentence,  impersonal  and,  like  a  jigsaw  puzzle, 
meaningless  until  put  together. 

"I  never  had  no  girl." 

We  turned  three  switchbacks. 

"Don't  suppose  no  girl  would  ever  look  at  me." 

Five  minutes  passed.  He  looked  over  the  ears  of  his 
roan  top-horse. 

"I  got  a  little  hoss  home  I  gentled.  She  was  a  wild 
hoss,  and  only  me  could  ride  her.  But  I  rode  her  good." 

He  stopped  to  lengthen  a  tourist's  stirrups,  and  mount- 
ed again. 

"I  got  a  silver-mounted  bridle  cost  $500  when  it  was 
new.  I  bought  it  cheap.  Has  one  of  those  here  mono- 
grams on  it,  J.  W.  and  two  silver  hearts." 

"Are  they  your  initials?" 


ON  NATIONAL  PARKS  AND  GUIDES    337 

uNo,  ma'am.  They  stood  for  something  else — George 
Washington  maybe." 

A  pause.  "I  taught  that  little  pony  of  mine  to  do 
tricks." 

A  momentous  pause.  "If  I  had  a  girl  I  liked  real  good, 
I'd  give  her  that  hoss  and  saddle." 

We  had  nearly  reached  the  top  of  the  trail. 

"I'd  kinder  like  an  Eastern  girl  that  could  ride  a  hoss 
good." 

And  then  the  approach  direct. 

"Onct  I  had  a  diamond  neck  pin.  I  aint  got  it  now.  I 
pawned  it.  But  I  got  a  picter  of  myself  wearin'  that  pin 
you  could  have." 

That  night,  he  sauntered  to  the  hotel,  and  leaned 
against  the  door,  and  looked  at  the  moon,  which  was 
full. 

"A  great  night,"  he  said.  And  a  pause.  "One  of  these 
here  nights  when  a  feller  just  feels  like " 

I  thought  he  had  stopped,  but  sometime  later  he  re- 
sumed, still  regarding  the  moon. 

"Like  kinder  spooninV 

But  it  takes  a  moon  to  bring  out  the  softer  side  of  the 
guide  nature,  and  they  waste  little  time  in  thoughts  of 
"kinder  spoonin'  "  when  they  have  a  party  on  a  difficult 
trail.  There  they  are  nurse-maids,  advisers  and  grooms, 
entertainers  and  disciplinarians,  all  in  an  outwardly  casual 
manner.  As  they  swing  in  their  saddles  up  the  trail,  what 
they  are  thinking  has  much  to  do  with  whom  they  are 
guiding.  We  saw  all  kinds  of  "doods"  while  at  Glacier, 
and  some  would  have  driven  me  mad,  but  I  never  yet 
saw  a  guide  lose  his  temper. 

"Honest,"    confided    Johnson, — Johnson    is    an    old 


338  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

timer  who  limps  from  an  ancient  quarrel  with  a  grizzly, 
and  wears  overalls  and  twisted  braces  and  humps  together 
in  the  saddle, — uhonest,  there's  some  of  them  you 
couldn't  suit  not  if  you  had  the  prettiest  pair  of  wings 


ever  was." 


There  was  the  gentleman  who  appeared  in  very  loud 
chaps  and  bandana  and  showed  his  knowledge  of  west- 
ern life,  regardless  of  the  fact  that  Toby's  horse  and  mine 
just  behind  him  were  showing  a  tendency  to  buck,  by 
shouting,  "Hi-yi"  and  bringing  down  his  Stetson  with  a 
bang  on  the  neck  of  the  spiritless  hack  the  guides  had 
sardonically  bestowed  on  him. 

There  was  the  fond  mother  who  held  up  the  whole 
party  to  Logan  Pass  while  she  pleaded  with  her  twelve- 
year-old  son  to  wear  one  of  her  veils  to  keep  off  the  flies. 
Poor  little  chap !  His  red  face  showed  the  tortures  he 
endured,  and  the  guide  turned  away  and  pretended  not 
to  hear. 

There  was  the  old  lady  and  her  spinster  daughter 
from  Philadelphia  who  took  a  special  camping  trip  high 
into  the  mountains  where  crystal  streams  start  from  their 
parent  glaciers,  and  insisted  on  the  guide  boiling  every 
drop  of  water  before  they  would  drink  it.  And  when  they 
left  they  sent  all  the  saddle  bags  to  be  dry  cleaned,  there- 
by ruining  them. 

There  was  also  Mr.  Legion,  who  had  never  been  on  a 
horse  before,  who  complained  all  the  twenty-six  miles  up 
and  down  hill  that  his  stirrups  were  too  long,  and  too 
short,  that  his  horse  wouldn't  go,  and  that  he  jolted  when 
he  trotted,  that  the  saddle  was  too  hard  and  that  the 
guide  went  so  fast  nobody  could  keep  up  with  him.  It 
was  Mrs.  Legion  who  got  dizzy  at  the  steep  places  and 


ON   NATIONAL  PARKS  AND  GUIDES    339 

stopped  the  procession  on  the  worst  switchback  while 
she  got  off  and  walked,  or  insisted  on  taking  her  eight- 
year-old  child  along,  and  then  frightened  both  the  child 
and  herself  into  hysteria  when  they  gazed  down  on  those 
lake-threaded  valleys  straight  beneath  them. 

There  was  the  lady  who  took  a  walk  up  a  tangled 
mountain-side  to  pick  flowers,  and  got  lost  and  kept  the 
whole  outfit  hunting  for  her  an  entire  night. 

But  there  were  many  as  well  who  were  good-natured 
and  good  sports,  whether  they  had  little  or  much  experi- 
ence in  riding  and  roughing  it, — many  who  acquired  here 
a  life-long  habit  for  outdoors. 

Having  seen  all  these  sorts  and  conditions  of  "doods," 
we  tried  not  to  be  vain  when  Bill  introduced  us  to  his 
friend  Curly  in  these  words.  The  fact  that  Bill  had 
visited  Lewis',  the  only  place  in  the  Park  where  there  was 
a  saloon,  had  no  effect  on  our  pride,  for  Bill  had  tightly 
kept  his  opinion  to  himself,  heretofore,  and  in  vino  veri- 
tas. 

"Girls,"  he  said  from  his  horse,  his  dignity  not  a 
whit  impaired  because  of  the  purple  neck-handkerchief 
pinned  to  his  Stetson,  because  "the  boys  said  I  didn't  look 

quite  wild  enough," "Girls,  this  is  Curly.  Curly,  this 

is  the  girls.  You'll  like  them,  Curly,  they  aint  helpless !" 

Praise  is  as  sweet  to  me  as  to  most,  but  those  words  of 
Bill's,  even  with  the  evidence  of  the  bandana,  meant 
more  than  the  wildest  flattery. 

Of  all  the  "dood-wranglers"  in  the  Park,  Bill  was  pos- 
sessed of  the  most  whimsical  personality.  He  had  been 
our  guide  several  summers  ago,  the  year  the  draft  bill 
was  passed.  Bill  always  spoke  in  a  slow  drawl,  his  words, 
unhurried  and  ceaseless,  forming  into  an  unconscious 


340  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

blank  verse  frequently  at  odd  variance  with  their  import. 
Could  Edgar  Lee  Masters  do  better  than  this? 

"I  had  a  legacy  from  my  uncle, 

The  only  one  in  the  fam'ly  had  money. 

They  quarreled  over  the  will. 

When  I  got  my  share 

It  was  just  eighty  dollars. 

I  bought  me  a  saddle  with  it, 

Then  I  got  gamblin', 

Pawned  the  saddle, 

Tore  up  the  tickets 

And  throwed  them  away." 

"I  was  never  in  jail  but  onct,"  he  told  us,  rather  sur- 
prised at  his  own  restraint,  "and  then  I  was  drunk.  I  was 
feelin'  fine, — rode  my  hoss  on  the  sidewalk,  shot  off  my 
gun  and  got  ten  days.  Was  you  ever  drunk?  No? 
Well,  beer's  all  right  if  you  want  a  drink,  but  if  you 
want  to  get  drunk,  try  champagne.  You  take  it  one  day, 
and  rense  out  your  mouth  the  next,  and  you're  as  drunk 
as  you  were  the  night  before." 

When  the  draft  came,  no  high  sentiments  of  patriotism 
flowed  in  vers  libre  from  Bill's  lips. 

"There's  places  in  the  Grand  Canyon  I  know  of  where 
I  reckon  I  could  hide  out,  and  no  draft  officer  could  find 
me  till  the  war  was  over,"  he  declared.  "I'd  rather  be  a 
live  coward  than  a  dead  hero  any  day." 

But  he  went,  and  of  course  was  drafted  into  the  in- 
fantry, he  who  saddled  his  horse  to  cross  the  street,  and 
who  had  said  earnestly,  "Girls,  if  you  want  to  make  a 
cow-puncher  sore,  set  him  afoot."  Like  several  other 
of  his  "doods"  who  had  witnessed  the  tragedy  of  his 
being  drafted,  when  he  went  about  with  lugubrious  fore- 


ON  NATIONAL  PARKS  AND  GUIDES    341 

bodings  and  refused  to  be  cheered,  I  sent  him  a  sweater, 
and  received  promptly  a  letter  of  thanks. 

"I  thought  everybody  had  forgotten  me,  judging  by 
my  feelings.  I  am  the  worst  disgusted  cowboy  that  ever 
existed.  Existed  is  right  at  the  present.  This  is  no 
life  for  a  cowboy  that  has  been  used  to  doing  as  he 
pleases.  Here  you  do  as  they  please.  They  keep  me 
walking  all  day  long.  They  ball  me  out,  and  make  me 
like  it.  I  dassent  fight  and  they  wont  let  me  leave.  Say 
—what  complexion  is  butter?  I  aint  seen  any  sense  I  left 
Glacier.  I've  eat  macaroni  till  I  look  like  a  Dago  and 
canned  sammin  till  I  dassent  cover  up  my  head  at  night 
for  fear  I  would  smell  my  own  breath.  If  this  training 
camp  don't  kill  me  there  will  be  no  chance  for  the  Ger- 
mans, but  I'd  sooner  a  German  would  get  me  than  die  by 
inches  in  this  here  sheep  corral." 

When  Toby  and  I  reached  the  Park,  I  inquired  for  Bill 
from  one  of  his  buddies  who  was  a  guide  that  year,  and 
learned  that  his  fortunes  had  mended  from  this  peak  of 
depression.  He  had  been  transferred  to  the  remount 
department,  and  when  a  mule  broke  his  arm  his  home- 
sickness departed,  and  he  was  filled  with  content.  He 
even  clamored  to  be  sent  over  to  "scalp  a  few  Huns." 

"He  did  things  anyone  else  would  be  court-martialed 
for,"  his  buddy  related,  "but  Bill  always  had  an  alibi. 
When  we  were  ordered  out  on  a  hike,  Bill  would  go 
along,  taking  pains  to  march  on  the  outside.  When  we 
came  to  a  culvert,  he  would  drop  over  the  edge,  hide 
awhile  and  go  back  to  his  bunk  for  the  day.  They  never 
did  find  him  out. 

"The  mud  was  a  foot  deep  in  the  corral,  and  once 
when  Bill  was  roping  a  mule,  the  mule  got  £way,  dragging 


342  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

Bill  after.  He  splashed  in,  and  when  we  see  him  again 
he  was  mud  all  over.  And  mad.  The  air  was  blue.  He 
rushed  into  the  Major's  office  just  as  he  was.  The  Major 
was  a  stiff  old  bird  every  one  else  was  afraid  of.  But 
not  Bill. 

"  'Look  at  me/  he  sputtered.  'Look  at  me!'  And 
then  he  swore  some  more.  'Look  at  this  new  uniform!' 

"  'What  do  you  mean,'  says  the  Major,  drawing  him- 
self up  and  gettin'  red  in  the  face.  'Are  you  drunk?' 

"  'No,'  says  Bill,  very  innocent,  'do  I  have  to  be  drunk 
to  talk  to  you?' 

"But  he  got  his  new  uniform.  Any  of  the  rest  of  us 
would  have  been  stood  up  against  a  wall  at  sunrise.  An- 
other time  a  consignment  of  shoes  came  in  that  was 
meant  for  a  race  of  giants.  None  of  us  could  wear  them. 
Bill  was  awful  proud  of  his  feet,  too.  He  swore  he  would 
get  a  pair  to  fit.  So  he  put  his  on,  and  went  to  see  the 
Major. 

"  'Look  at  these  shoes,'  he  says. 

"  'They  look  all  right  to  me,'  says  the  Major.  'Seems 
like  a  pretty  good  fit.' 

"  'Yes,  but  see  here,'  says  Bill.  And  he  took  off  the 
shoes,  and  there  was  his  other  shoes  underneath.  He 
got  a  pair  that  fit,  right  away.  Nobody  else  did." 

Such  initiative  otherwise  applied  might  well  make  a 
captain  of  industry  of  him,  were  it  not  that  Bill  is  typical 
of  his  kind,  his  creed  "for  to  admire  an'  for  to  see,  for 
to  behold  this  world  so  wide."  Free  and  foot  loose  they 
will  be,  rejecting  the  bondage  of  routine  that  makes  of  a 
resourceful  man,  as  they  all  are,  a  captain  of  industry. 
The  world  is  their  playground,  not  their  schoolroom. 
Independent  they  will  be  of  discipline. 


ON  NATIONAL  PARKS  AND  GUIDES    343 

"Aren't  you  afraid  of  losing  your  job?"  we  asked  a 
guide  who  confided  some  act  of  insubordination. 

"Well,  I  come  here  looking  for  a  job,"  he  answered. 

As  Bill  put  it,  in  his  rhythmic  way,—  "The  Lord  put  me 
on  earth  to  eat  and  sleep  and  ride  the  ponies,  and  I  ain't 
figurin'  on  doin'  nothin'  else." 

And  he  finished,  "There's  just  three  things  in  the 
world  I  care  about, — my  hawss,  and  my  rope  and  my 
hat." 

The  genius  of  the  west  lies,  I  think,  in  its  power  of 
objectiveness.  The  east  is  subjective.  When  an  east- 
erner tells  a  story,  he  locates  himself  emotionally  with 
much  concern.  He  may  be  vague  as  to  time  and  place, 
but  you  know  his  moods  and  impressions  with  subtle  exact- 
ness. Every  westerner  I  ever  knew  begins  his  first  sen- 
tence of  a  story  with  his  location  and  objective.  Then 
he  adds  dates  and  follows  with  an  anecdote  of  bare  facts, 
untinged  by  his  emotions.  His  audience  fills  in  the  chinks 
with  what  he  does  not  say.  For  example,  a  guide,  telling 
of  a  trip,  might  say 

"I  was  headed  north  over  Eagle  Pass  with  an  outfit  of 
geologists  in  a  northwest  storm.  The  animals  had  just 
come  in  from  winter  feedin'  the  day  before.  My  top- 
hawss  had  went  lame  on  me,  and  I  had  to  borrow  a  cayuse 
from  an  Indian.  I  had  a  pack  outfit  of  burros  and  was 
drivin'  three  empties  that  give  out  on  us.  We  was  short 
of  grub,  and  twenty  miles  to  make  to  the  trader's.  The 
dudes  had  wore  setfasts  on  their  hawsses,  and  when  I 
ast  them  could  they  kinder  trot  along,  the  ladies  would 
hit  their  saddles  with  a  little  whip  and  say  'gittap, 
hawsie.'  ' 

Only  bald  facts  are  told  in  that  narrative,  mainly  unin- 


344  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

telligible  unless  you  know  what  the  facts  connote.  Told 
to  a  fellow  guide  they  bring  forth  nods  of  silent  sym- 
pathy. Many  experiences  of  the  same  sort  help  him  to 
see  the  huddled,  inexpert  figures  of  saddle-sore  dudes, 
some  clad  piecemeal,  some  in  the  extreme  of  appropriate- 
ness. He  knows  the  exasperating  slowness  of  horses 
drained  of  the  last  ounce  of  endurance.  He,  too,  has 
tried  to  urge  on  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  tired 
horses,  burros  and  dudes,  all  wandering  in  different  direc- 
tions, at  differing  gaits.  He  knows  the  self-respecting 
guide's  chagrin  at  losing  the  pride  of  his  life, — his  top- 
horse,  and  he  knows  the  condition  of  Indian  cayuses  at  the 
end  of  winter.  He  has  felt  unutterable  disgust  at  having 
to  ride  a  hack.  He  knows  the  necessity  of  keeping  patient 
and  courteous  under  irritation,  and  the  responsibility  of 
getting  his  party  of  tenderfeet  over  a  bad  divide  in  a 
storm  with  night  coming  and  food  scarce,  when  a  slight 
mishap  may  accumulate  more  serious  disasters.  He  knows 
how  weary  burros  wander  in  circles  so  persistently  that  the 
most  patient  guide, — and  all  guides  are  patient,  they  have 
to  be, — wants  to  murder  them  brutally.  And  the  sickening 
scrape  of  girths  on  raw,  bleeding  sores,  requiring  tender 
care  after  treatment  of  weeks.  He  knows  every  party  has 
its  foolish,  ineffectual  members  who  tire  the  first  mile  out, 
and  after  that  sink  into  limp  dejection,  remarking  plain- 
tively and  often,  "This  horse  is  no  good,"  as  they  give 
him  a  light  flick  which  hits  leather  or  saddle  roll,  but 
never  the  horse,  and  kick  at  him  without  touching  him. 
And  geologists!  One  or  two,  he  knows,  can  ride  and 
camp  and  are  as  good  as  the  guides,  but  others  will  want 
to  stop  the  outfit  on  the  worst  spot  in  the  trail,  and  nearly 


TWO  MEDICINE  LAKE,  GLACIER  PARK,  MONTANA. 


WRANGLING  HORSES,  GLACIER  PARK,  MONTANA. 


ON  NATIONAL  PARKS  AND  GUIDES    345 

cause  a  stampede  gathering  rocks  which  the  guide  must 
secure  to  the  already  overweighty  pack. 

But  see  how  much  longer  it  takes  a  story  Eastern 
fashion.  Once  you  have  the  key  to  the  Westerner's  nar- 
rative, you  get  the  vividness  of  these  compressed  facts. 
If  you  have  not,  he  might  as  well  be  talking  Sanscrit  as 
colloquial  English  of  one  and  two  syllables.  You  listen 
and  wonder  what  has  happened  to  your  mind:  you  seem 
to  understand  everything  he  is  saying,  yet  you  understand 
nothing. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   NAIL-FILE   AND  THE   CHIPPEWA 

AT  Many  Glaciers  they  advised  us  to  visit  the  lovely 
Waterton  Lakes  lying  in  the  Canadian  extension 
of  Glacier  Park. 

"There's  only  one  bad  place, — north  of  Babb.  It's 
flooded  for  some  miles,  but  all  you  have  to  do  is  climb  the 
canal  bank,  and  run  along  the  top." 

As  people  were  always  advising  us  to  undertake  some 
form  of  acrobatics,  we  stored  the  canal  bank  in  the  back 
of  our  minds,  and  started  for  Babb  and  Canada. 

Babb  proved  as  short  of  population  as  of  syllables. 
We  went  the  length  of  the  town,  and  encountered  only 
one  building, — the  postoffice  and  store.  That  its  popu- 
lace was  treated  more  generously  in  the  matter  of  syl- 
lables we  discovered  by  idly  reading  the  mailing  list  of 
Blackfeet  citizens,  pasted  on  the  wall.  Among  Babb's 
most  prominent  residents  are  Killfirst  Stingy,  Mary  Ear- 
rings, Susie  Swimsunder,  Ada  Calflooking,  Cecile 
Weaselwoman,  Xavier  Billetdoux,  Joe  Scabbyrobe,  Alex 
Biglodgepole  and  Josephine  Underotter  Owlchild. 

I  have  been  told  that  many  Indian  tribes  name  a  child 
from  the  greatest  event  in  the  life  of  its  oldest  living 
relative.  When  the  child  reaches  maturity,  he  earns  a 
name  for  himself  by  some  characteristic  achievement, 
goaded  to  it,  no  doubt,  by  the  horrors  of  his  given  name. 

Thus  by  a  glance  at  the  census  lists  we  are  able  to  read 

346 


THE  NAIL-FILE  AND  THE  CHIPPEWA  347 

past  history,  and  compare  the  amorous  agitations  of 
Xavier  Billetdoux'  granddaddy  with  the  bucolic  and  se- 
rene existence  of  Ada  Calflooking's  great-aunt.  Not  a 
bad  way  of  checking  up  one's  ancestry  against  one's  own 
worth.  If  we  followed  the  same  system,  Cornelius 
Rowed  Washington  across  the  Delaware  might  be  rechris- 
tened  C.  Shimmyfoot,  while  Adolph  Foreclosedthe- 
widow'smortgage  might  earn  the  nobler  surname  of  En- 
dowsahospital.  It  is  really  a  remarkable  system  of  short- 
hand autobiography,  enabling  a  complete  stranger  to 
tell  whether  one  belongs  to  a  good  family  going  downhill, 
or  a  poor  one  coming  uphill,  or  a  mediocre  at  a  stand- 
still. How  many  a  near  Theda  Bara  who  would  like  to 
be  named  Cecile  Weaselwoman  would  have  to  be  content 
as  Mary  Ear-rings.  How  many  a  purse-proud  Biglodge- 
pole  would  have  to  confess  his  grandfather  was  named 
Scabbyrobe.  Perhaps  this  is  the  reason  we  leave  such 
nomenclature  to  the  heathen  Indian. 

Reflecting  thus,  Toby  and  I  amused  ourselves  with  re- 
naming ourselves  and  our  friends,  until  we  reached  a 
place  where  some  altruistic  citizen  had  inundated  the 
road  in  order  to  irrigate  his  patch  of  land.  Here  we  were 
supposed  to  take  to  the  top  of  the  canal,  but  the  bank  was 
high,  narrow  and  shaly.  It  looked  too  much  like  a  con- 
spiracy against  both  us  and  the  canal,  so  we  disregarded 
our  advice  and  skirted  the  open  land.  By  leaving  the 
road  altogether  and  keeping  to  the  hills  we  avoided  most 
of  the  bog,  and  got  through  the  rest  with  a  little  maneu- 
vering. A  mile  further  we  learned  that  the  canal  bank 
had  given  way  under  a  car  the  previous  day,  and  carried 
car  and  occupants  into  the  water. 

The  beautiful  Flathead  Mountains  had  faded  away 


348  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

behind  us,  leaving  a  prairie  country  of  no  charm,  dry 
and  burnt.  At  the  border,  as  at  Mexico,  we  found  our 
little  customhouse  less  formal  and  more  shabby  than  our 
neighbor's,  but  at  both  we  received  clearance  and  cour- 
teous treatment.  When  we  said  we  came  from  Mass- 
achusetts, the  Canadian  agent  sighed. 

"Massachusetts !  What  do  you  see  in  a  God-forsaken 
hole  like  this  to  tempt  you  from  such  a  state?  I  wish  I 
could  go  there, — or  anywhere  away  from  this  place." 

Everywhere  we  heard  the  same  refrain.  Three  years 
of  killing  drought  had  scorched  the  treeless  plains  to  a 
cinder.  The  wheat,  promise  and  hope  of  Alberta,  had 
failed,  and  immigrants  who  had  gone  there  expecting  to 
return  to  the  old  country  in  a  few  years  with  a  fortune, 
were  so  completely  ruined  they  could  neither  go  back  nor 
forward,  but  saw  dismal  years  of  stagnation  before  them. 

There  are  more  cheerful  places  than  Alberta  in  which 
to  face  bankruptcy.  So  near  the  border,  this  part  of 
Canada  is  half  American, — American  with  a  cockney  ac- 
cent. But  it  is  newer  and  rawer  than  our  own  west  by  a 
decade  or  two,  with  less  taste  apparent,  less  prosperity, 
more  squalid  shiftlessness.  The  section  through  which 
we  drove  had  been  mainly  conquered  by  the  Mormons, 
driven  into  Canada  when  the  United  States  was  most  in- 
hospitable to  their  sect.  They  in  turn  have  converted 
many  of  the  immigrants  from  the  old  country.  The 
church  or  tithe  lands  make  sharp  contrast  in  their  pros- 
perity, their  thousands  of  sleek,  blooded  cattle  and  irri- 
gated fields  to  the  forlorn  little  settlements  of  indi- 
viduals. As  every  Mormon  pays  a  tenth  of  all  he  has  to 
his  church  it  is  easy  to  understand  this  contrast. 

In  our  six  months  of  travel  we  had  driven  over  the 


THE  NAIL-FILE  AND  THE  CHIPPEWA  349 

reservations  of  the  Papago,  Pima  and  Maricopa,  the 
Apache,  Hopi,  Havasupai,  Navajo,  Ute,  Piute,  Pueblo, 
Shoshone,  Blackfeet  and  Flatheads.  We  were  now  on 
the  Blood  Indian  reservation,  though  we  saw  few  in- 
habitants. Those  we  saw  were  red-skinned  and  tall,  re- 
sembling the  other  Northern  tribes.  The  country  grew 
less  inhabited.  We  met  no  other  cars  and  few  people. 
Fifty  miles  north  of  Browning,  our  last  town,  we  came  to 
a  lumber  camp,  and  seven  miles  further  our  car  quietly 
ceased  to  move,  and  rested  in  peace  on  a  hillside. 

Since  its  wetting  in  Nambe  creek,  the  ignition  had  been 
prone  to  such  sudden  stops  and  starts.  From  past  ex- 
perience we  knew  that  the  ignition  system  must  be  com- 
pletely taken  apart,  exposing  its  innermost  parts  to  the 
daylight.  All  I  knew  about  it  was  summed  up  in  my 
brother's  parting  advice,  "Never  monkey  with  your  igni- 
tion." All  Toby  knew  was  that  Bill  of  Santa  Fe  had 
taken  it  apart,  done  something  to  it,  put  it  together  again, 
and  it  ran.  So  we  decided  to  follow  Bill's  procedure  as 
far  as  we  could,  and  began  by  taking  it  apart.  That 
went  very  well  until  we  discovered  some  covetous  person 
had  removed  all  the  tiny  tools  used  in  operating  on  this 
part  of  the  engine,  leaving  us  only  a  monkey  wrench  and  a 
large  pair  of  pincers.  Toby  nearly  stood  on  her  head 
trying  to  unscrew  very  little  screws  with  the  big  wrench, 
and  progressed  but  slowly,  as  she  had  to  change  her  entire 
position  with  each  quarter  turn. 

After  about  an  hour  we  had  every  nut  and  screw  in  the 
forward  part  of  the  engine  in  rows  on  the  running  board. 
My  task  was  to  take  the  parts  as  Toby  unscrewed  them, 
and  lay  them  neatly  from  left  to  right,  so  that  we  should 


350  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

know  in  what  order  to  replace  them.  Then  I  glanced  at 
the  remains  which  Toby  had  succeeded  in  uncovering. 

"The  distributor  needs  cleaning,"  I  said  expertly, 
thereby  greatly  impressing  Toby.  I  remembered  Bill  had 
said  the  same  thing,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  re- 
member what  the  distributor  was.  By  opening  the  cock 
of  our  tank,  and  holding  a  tin  cup  beneath,  catching  a 
drop  at  a  time  we  managed  in  another  hour  to  get  enough 
gasoline  to  bathe  the  affected  parts,  as  druggist's  direc- 
tions say. 

So  far,  not  a  hitch.  And  then  a  little  wire  flapped 
before  our  eyes  which  seemingly  had  no  connection  with 
any  other  part.  Toby  thought  it  belonged  in  one  place, 
and  for  the  sake  of  argument,  I  held  out  for  another,  but 
neither  of  us  was  sure  enough  to  make  a  point  of  our 
opinion.  Meanwhile  the  car  could  not  start  until  this 
wire  was  hitched  to  something,  yet  we  dared  not  risk  a 
short-circuit  by  connecting  it  to  the  wrong  screw.  So  we 
stood  still  in  the  hot,  dusty  road  and  waited  for  some- 
thing to  turn  up. 

"I  have  a  hunch,  Toby,"  I  said,  "that  when  we  really 
give  up  and  go  for  help,  the  old  lady  will  begin  running 
again." 

"Then  you'd  better  start  at  once,"  said  Toby. 

"No,  it  won't  be  as  simple  as  that.  We  shall  have  to 
work  for  what  we  get." 

At  this  moment  a  Ford  containing  four  men  drew  up 
and  stopped.  We  explained  our  trouble. 

"You  took  it  apart  without  knowing  how  to  put  it  to- 
gether again?"  said  one  of  them.  They  exchanged 
glances  which  said  "How  like  a  woman!" 

"When   we    took    it    apart,"    answered   Toby    with 


THE   NAIL-FILE  AND  THE   CHIPPEWA  351 

hauteur,  uwe  knew  how  to  put  it  together  again,  but  so 
many  things  have  happened  in  the  meantime  that  the 
exact  process  has  slipped  our  minds.  But  if  you  will  ex- 
plain the  principles  of  this  ignition  system  to  us  I  think  we 
can  manage." 

The  man  muttered  something  about  a  Ford  not  having 
one,  and  drove  on.  Like  most  men,  he  was  willing  to 
stay  as  long  as  he  could  appear  in  a  superior  light,  but  no 
longer. 

Though  they  were  poor  consolation,  the  horizon  looked 
very  lonely  after  they  left.  Later  in  the  afternoon,  two 
Indian  boys  with  fish-poles  over  their  shoulders  sauntered 
by.  Having  exhausted  our  combined  knowledge  we  had 
decided  to  give  up  and  telephone  to  the  nearest  garage. 
I  hastened  to  them,  not  knowing  when  we  should  again 
see  a  human  soul. 

"How  far  away  is  the  nearest  garage?"  I  asked  them. 

The  younger  boy  giggled,  but  the  older  answered  in 
very  good,  soft-spoken  English,  "At  Browning,  fifty 
miles  away." 

A  hundred  dollars  for  towing,  and  days  of  delay!  I 
caught  at  a  straw. 

"Is  there  by  any  chance  an  electrician  back  at  the  lum- 
ber camp?" 

"No,  ma'am." 

Then  noticing  my  despair,  he  added  diffidently,  "I 
studied  electricity  at  Carlisle.  Perhaps  I  can  help  you." 

Our  guardian  angels  fluttered  so  near  we  could  almost 
see  their  wings.  Here  was  Albert  Gray,  for  so  he  was 
hight,  transplanted  from  his  Chippewa  reservation  for  a 
two  days'  visit  to  his  Blood  cousins,  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  rescuing  us  from  our  latest  predicament.  Efficiency 


352  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

and  economy  must  have  been  the  watchword  of  those 
ministering  spirits  of  ours,  for  not  only  did  they  send 
the  only  electrician  within  fifty  miles,  but  then  sent  one 
whose  knowledge,  combined  with  our  own,  was  just  suffi- 
cient. I  do  not  believe  Albert  really  knew  a  fuse  from  a 
switchbox,  but  he  did  remember  one  essential  we  had  for- 
gotten,— that  the  points  should  be  a  sixteenth  of  an  inch 
apart.  But  without  tools  he  said  he  could  do  nothing. 
So  we  proffered  a  nail-file,  by  happy  inspiration,  with 
which  he  ground  the  points.  We  screwed  together  all  the 
parts,  connected  the  mysterious  wire  by  a  counting-out 
rime,  and  turned  the  engine.  Nothing  moved. 

I  turned  my  back  on  the  exasperating  car,  and  started 
to  walk  the  seven  miles  back  to  the  lumber  camp.  Then, 
on  remembering  my  hunch  it  seemed  as  if  all  conditions 
were  now  fulfilled,  so  I  returned,  put  my  foot  on  the 
starter, — and  the  engine  hummed.  And  until  we  reached 
Boston  again,  it  never  ceased  to  hum. 

A  prouder  moment  neither  Toby  nor  I  ever  had,  when 
by  grace  of  a  Chippewa  and  a  nail-file  we  monkeyed  with 
our  ignition  fifty  miles  from  a  garage, — and  conquered  it. 

I  shall  always  remember  slow  spoken,  polite  Albert 
Gray.  Like  Lucy  of  the  same  sur-name,  he  made  oh,  the 
difference  to  me! 

The  good  looking  garage  helper  at  Cardston  met  us 
with  a  beaming  smile. 

"I've  filled  your  radiator,"  he  said,  "and  your  can- 
teen, and  put  in  oil  and  gas,  and  I've  infatuated  all  your 


tires." 


It  was  this  same  delightful  Mr.  Malaprop  of  whom 


THE  NAIL-FILE  AND  THE  CHIPPEWA  353 

we  inquired,  discussing  various  automobiles,  "Do  you 
like  the  Marmon?" 

"I'm  not  one  myself,"  he  answered  cautiously,  "but  my 
father-in-law  is,  and  I  get  on  pretty  good  with  him." 

Through  his  connections-in-law  he  obtained  for  us  the 
privilege  of  seeing  the  interior  of  the  new  Mormon 
Temple,  which  is  to  rival  Salt  Lake's.  Our  unfailing 
luck  had  brought  us  here  at  the  only  interval  when  Gen- 
tiles are  allowed  to  enter  a  Mormon  church,  after  com- 
pletion and  before  its  dedication.  This  little  town  of  not 
more  than  five  thousand  inhabitants,  surrounded  by  the 
brown,  parched  prairie,  is  dominated  by  a  million  dollar 
edifice,  far  more  beautiful  than  the  parent  Temple  in 
Utah,  and  magnificent  enough  for  any  city.  A  perfect 
creation  in  itself,  fitted  like  the  Temple  of  Solomon  with 
matched  marble  and  granite  brought  from  the  ends  of 
the  earth,  it  looks  strangely  out  of  keeping  with  the 
bare  shacks  and  ugly  little  frontier  shanties  surrounding 
it.  Its  architecture  was  modified  from  Aztec  designs. 
The  young  Salt  Lake  Mormons  whose  plans  won  the 
award  in  competition  with  many  renowned  architects 
achieved  an  arrestingly  original  building  of  massive  dig- 
nity and  grace,  managing  at  the  same  time  to  conform  to 
the  exacting  requirements  of  Mormon  symbolism.  No 
two  rooms  are  built  on  the  same  level,  but  rise  in  a 
gradual  ascent  to  the  roof,  from  which  one  may  look 
miles  over  the  rolling  plains  of  Alberta.  This  require- 
ment, which  must  have  caused  the  designers  and  builders 
much  anguish,  is  meant  to  symbolize  the  soul's  ascent 
from  a  gross  and  carnal  to  a  spiritual  life.  The  ground 
floor  has  many  dressing-rooms  where  those  who  "work 
for  the  dead"  change  from  street  clothes  to  the  garments 


354  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

prescribed  by  Mormon  ritual.  Above  are  rooms  paneled 
in  the  most  costly  woods, — Circassian  walnut,  tulip- 
wood,  mahogany  and  rosewood, — for  the  use  of  the 
church  officials,  and  beyond  these,  larger  rooms  called 
"Earth,"  "Purgatory,"  "Heaven,"  decorated  with  beauti- 
ful mural  paintings  with  appropriate  scenes.  "Earth"  held 
great  attractions  for  me,  with  its  frieze  of  jungle  beasts 
threading  their  way  through  gnarled  forests, — an  able 
and  artistic  piece  of  work,  done  by  Prof.  Evans  of  Salt 
Lake.  The  stout  little  Cockney  Mormon  who  accom- 
panied the  Bishop  and  ourselves  through  the  Temple  gave 
us  this  information,  though  from  his  lips  it  sounded  like 
"Prof.  Heavens,  of  the  Heart  Department."  We  passed 
on  from  Earth  to  the  assembly  room  in  the  center  of  the 
Temple,  a  magnificent  chamber  with  an  altar,  where 
services  are  held  and  marriages  performed. 

"Here,  if  you  wish,"  the  Bishop  said,  "you  can  be 
sealed  to  eternity." 

Toby  who  had  all  along,  I  think,  expected  to  be 
pounced  on  as  a  possible  plural  wife  backed  away  from 
the  altar,  but  the  Bishop  was  speaking  impersonally.  He 
explained  that  any  Mormon  happy  in  his  present  matri- 
monial venture  (I  use  the  singular,  as  polygamy  is  now 
illegal  both  in  Canada  and  the  United  States)  may  extend 
that  happiness  to  eternity,  and  insure  getting  the  same 
wife  in  Heaven  by  this  ceremony.  He  himself  had  been 
sealed, — "the  children  sitting  on  each  side  of  us  in  their 
white  robes," — the  ceremonial  garment, — and  was  secure 
in  the  belief  that  his  family  happiness  would  continue 
after  death. 

We  broached  with  some  hesitation  the  subject  of  poly- 


A  MORMON  IRRIGATED  VILLAGE. 


MJ 


Yfifff 

i  1 1 1 1 


THE  "MILLION  DOLLAR"  MORMON  TEMPLE  AT  CARDSTON,  ALBERTA,  CANADA. 


THE  NAIL-FILE  AND  THE  CHIPPEWA  355 

gamy.     The  Bishop  readily  took  it  up,  declaring  poly- 
gamy entirely  abolished. 

"Even -at  its  height,  not  more  than  three  per  cent  of  our 
men  had  plural  wives,"  he  said. 

"As  few  as  that?'1 

"Yes." 

"Then  since  the  majority  never  sanctioned  it,  the 
Church  has  abolished  it,  and  you  yourself  never  prac- 
tised it,  I  suppose  you  consider  it  wrong?" 

"Oh,  no — I  shouldn't  call  it  wrong.  Why,  it  was  the 
best  advertising  we  could  possibly  have  had.  People 
heard  of  the  Mormons  all  over  the  world,  and  began 
talking  about  them, — all  because  of  polygamy.  I  don't 
suppose  we  should  ever  have  become  so  prosperous  and 
powerful  without  the  free  advertising  it  gave  us.  It 
enabled  us  to  extend  our  faith  to  all  corners  of  the  earth. 
While  each  church  has  its  parish,  bishops,  elders  and 
presidents,  our  system  is  so  complete  that  in  three  hours 
the  Head  of  the  church  can  communicate  a  mandate  to 
the  furthest  missionary  in  Japan  or  India." 

"But  it  wasn't  very  good  advertising,  perhaps?" 

"Any  advertising  is  good  advertising,  so  long  as  it  gets 
people  talking." 

The  way  to  Waterton  Lakes,  several  hours  from  Card- 
ston,  lay  through  the  tithe  lands  of  the  Church, — a  mile 
north,  a  mile  west,  and  so  on,  with  the  monotonous  regu- 
larity of  section  roads.  Then  suddenly  emerging  from 
the  barren  country,  we  found  ourselves  again  in  the 
Rockies.  We  motored  past  a  chain  of  glassy  mountain 
lakes,  each  one  full  to  the  brim  with  trout,  so  we  had 
been  told.  The  air  sparkled ;  late  July  here  in  the  north 
had  the  tang  of  autumn  through  the  golden  sun.  Forests 


356  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

of  pine  edged  the  shores  of  the  lakes.  The  same  sharply 
notched  peaks  we  had  known  at  Glacier  Park  guarded 
their  solitude.  This  park,  under  the  care  of  the  Canadian 
government,  lies  in  the  hinterland  of  Glacier.  Over  its 
ranges  a  pack  train  can  make  its  way  in  a  few  days  from 
one  park  to  the  other,  and  a  still  quicker  route  is  by  the 
intermittent  motorboat  which  carries  passengers  back 
and  forth  during  the  summer.  By  road  it  takes  a  day 
or  more  of  rough  prairie  traveling.  With  much  the 
same  type  of  scenery  as  Glacier  Park,  though  perhaps 
less  dramatic,  Waterton  Lakes  should  be  far  more  widely 
visited  than  they  are.  These  two  lovely  parks,  naturally 
a  continuation  of  each  other,  should  and  could  be  easily 
linked  more  closely  together. 

At  present  the  accommodations  of  Waterton  Lakes 
are  far  inferior  to  those  of  Glacier.  A  few  ex-saloons 
(Alberta  "went  dry")  offer  sandwiches  and  near  beer, 
but  the  gaudy  paper  decorations  on  the  walls,  covered 
with  flies,  and  the  inevitable  assortment  of  toothpicks, 
catsup  and  dirty  cruets  on  the  soiled  cloths,  are  successful 
destroyers  of  appetite.  I  was  told  that  the  railroad 
which  had  developed  Glacier  Park  so  intelligently,  build- 
ing the  few  necessary  hotels  with  dignity  and  charm,  of- 
fered to  extend  the  developments  to  Waterton  Lakes, 
but  that  Canada,  fearing  her  tourists  would  thereby  be 
diverted  into  the  "States,"  jealously  refused  the  offer.  A 
short-sighted  decision,  certainly,  for  the  flood  of  tourists 
coming  from  the  States  would  have  been  far  greater 
than  that  turned  in  the  other  direction. 

Toby  and  I  pitched  our  little  tent  on  a  delightful 
pebbled  beach,  planning  to  stay  several  days,  if  the  fish- 
ing were  as  good  as  it  had  been  reported.  But  after  a 


THE  NAIL-FILE  AND  THE  CHIPPEWA  357 

fruitless — or  fishless — afternoon  of  dangling  our  lines  in 
the  water,  with  no  profit  except  the  sight  of  the  hills 
which  guarded  the  blue  sparkle,  we  returned  to  our  tent 
at  sunset  with  no  prospect  of  food.  We  had  depended 
too  rashly  upon  our  skill  at  angling.  Hunger  can  take 
all  the  joy  out  of  scenery. 

To  tell  the  truth,  sleeping  in  a  tent  and  cooking  our 
own  meals  had  somewhat  lost  their  charms.  We  pre- 
ferred a  lumpy  bed  in  a  stuffy  room  to  a  hard  bed  on  the 
ground;  and  second-rate  meals  served  at  a  table  some- 
one else  had  taken  the  trouble  to  prepare  to  third-rate 
meals  prepared  with  greater  trouble  by  ourselves.  As 
we  looked  wearily  at  each  other,  each  hoping  the  other 
would  offer  to  make  the  beds  and  "rustle"  for  food,  we 
suddenly  realized  that  we  were  homesick.  We  had 
roughed  it  enough,  and  the  flesh  pots  beckoned. 

"Let's  go  back  to  Cardston,"  I  said. 

"Let's,"  said  Toby,  gladly. 

And  on  all  that  beauty  of  pure  woods  and  clear  sunset 
we  turned  and  fled  to  civilization.  Fifth-rate  civiliza- 
tion it  might  be,  in  a  province  as  crude  and  unlovely  as 
was  any  part  of  our  own  West  in  the  roaring  eighties. 
For  the  first  time  in  six  months  we  had  our  backs  to  the 
setting  sun,  the  sun  which  had  dazzled  our  eyes  every 
afternoon  since  we  left  the  boat  at  Galveston.  We  were 
leaving  the  great,  free  West,  "where  a  man  can  be  a 
man,  and  a  woman  can  be  a  woman,"  and  we  were  going 
— home ! 


CHAPTER  XXV 

HOMEWARD   HOBOES 

AT  Santa  Fe  we  had  a  worn  tire  retreaded.  "It  may 
last  you  a  thousand  miles,"  said  the  honest  dealer. 
At  the  end  of  the  thousand  miles,  the  tire  was  in  ribbons. 
We  put  it  on  the  forward  wheel  and  favored  it  all  we 
could.  In  another  thousand  miles  the  canvas  showed 
through  the  tread.  Time  went  on,  and  a  complete  new 
set  of  tires  went  to  the  junk-heap,  but  the  old  retread 
still  flaunted  its  tattered  streamers.  More  than  once, 
when  both  spare  tires  had  collapsed,  it  carried  us  safely 
over  long,  desolate  stretches.  At  last,  when  it  had  gone 
five  or  six  thousand  miles  we  ceased  to  worry.  The  con- 
viction came  to  my  prophetic  soul  that  it  would  take  us 
home.  And  it  did.  It  took  us  to  Toby's  door,  and 
went  flat  as  I  turned  into  my  own  driveway.  Thus  did 
our  guardian  angels  stay  with  us,  like  the  guide's  mule, 
to  the  end. 

Like  tired  horses  whose  heads  are  turned  homeward, 
our  pace  accelerated  steadily  as  we  moved  east.  Each 
day  we  put  two  hundred  miles  or  more  behind  us.  Mon- 
tana, brown  and  parched  like  all  the  West,  yet  magnifi- 
cent in  the  tremendous  proportions  of  its  mountains  and 
valleys,  we  left  with  regret.  We  followed  the  GreaT 
Northern  to  the  bleak  town  of  Havre,  then  dropped 
south  to  the  perfidious  Yellowstone  Trail.  Bits  of  the 
road  were  unexpectedly  good;  for  the  first  time  since 

358 


HOMEWARD  HOBOES  359 

Houston  the  old  lady's  skirts  hummed  in  the  breeze.  We 
unwillingly  put  hundreds  of  gophers  to  death.  The 
roads  here  were  honeycombed  with  their  nests,  and  as 
we  bore  down  on  them  they  poked  their  silly  heads  up  to 
be  sacrificed  or  ran  under  our  wheels  by  the  gross.  We 
learned  to  dread  them,  for  each  gopher-hole  meant  a 
sharp  little  jolt  to  the  car,  by  which  more  than  one  spring- 
leaf  was  snapped. 

For  several  days  we  trailed  forest  fires.  The  whole 
state  was  so  tindery  that  a  lighted  match  might  sweep  it 
clear.  Puffs  of  blue-white  smoke  blurred  the  sharp  out- 
lines of  the  mountains  and  the  air  was  warm  with  an  acrid, 
smoky  haze.  Sometimes  we  passed  newly  charred  forests 
with  little  tongues  of  flame  still  leaping  at  their  edges, 
and  once  we  barely  crossed  before  a  smouldering  fire 
swept  down  a  hillside  and  crossed  the  road  where  we 
had  been  a  moment  earlier.  The  people  we  met  were  in 
a  state  of  passive  depression  after  the  ruin  of  the  wheat 
at  this  last  blow  to  their  bank  accounts.  Some  blamed 
the  I.  W.  W.  for  the  fires,  but  most  of  them  spoke  of 
this  possibility  with  the  caution  one  pins  a  scandal  to  an 
ugly  neighbor  in  a  small  town. 

Montana's  cities  were  also  at  the  mercy  of  the  I.  W. 
W.  The  usual  strikes  were  agitating  at  Butte,  and  at 
the  two  leading  hotels  of  Great  Falls,  both  perfectly  ap- 
pointed, every  waiter  had  gone  on  strike,  and  the  cafe- 
terias were  doing  a  rushing  business.  The  chambermaids 
followed  suit  next  day.  Yet  we  liked  Great  Falls,  and  the 
kindred  cities  of  Montana,  sharp-edged,  clearly  focussed 
little  towns,  brisk  and  new,  frankly  ashamed  of  their  un- 
Rexalled  past,  and  making  plans  to  build  a  skyscraper  a 
week — in  the  future. 


360  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

Miles  City  and  Roundup, — what  visions  of  frontier 
life  they  conjured  up  I  And  how  little  they  fulfilled  these 
visions !  The  former  used  to  be  and  still  is  the  scene  of 
great  horse  fairs  and  the  center  of  horse-trading  Mon- 
tana, a  fact  brought  home  to  us  by  the  manifold  horse- 
shoe nails  that  punctured  our  tires  in  this  district.  But 
as  we  saw  no  chaparraled  rough-riders  swaggering  in  the 
streets  of  Round-up,  so  we  saw  no  horses  in  Miles  City. 
It  may  be  that  once  or  twice  yearly  these  towns  revert  to 
old  customs,  and  their  streets  glow  with  the  color  of 
former  years,  but  otherwise  they  are  more  concerned  with 
their  future  than  their  past,  and  are  trying  as  fast  as 
possible  to  wipe  out  all  traits  that  distinguish  them  from 
every  other  thriving  city. 

Of  this  very  section  we  drove  through,  back  in  the 
eighties  Theodore  Roosevelt  wrote,  "In  its  present  form 
stock-raising  on  the  plains  is  doomed  and  can  hardly  out- 
last the  century.  The  great  free  ranches  with  their  bar- 
barous, picturesque  and  curiously  fascinating  surround- 
ings, mark  a  primitive  stage  of  existence  as  surely  as  do 
the  great  tracts  of  primeval  forests,  and  like  the  latter 
must  pass  away  before  the  onward  march  of  our  people ; 
and  we  who  have  felt  the  charm  of  the  life,  and  have 
exulted  in  its  abounding  vigor  and  its  bold,  restless  free- 
dom, will  not  only  regret  its  passing  for  our  own  sakes, 
but  must  also  feel  real  sorrow  that  those  who  come  after 
us  are  not  to  see,  as  we  have  seen,  what  is  perhaps  the 
pleasantest,  healthiest,  and  most  exciting  phase  of 
American  existence." 

We  came  into  the  town  of  Medora  on  the  Little  Mis- 
souri, after  the  hills  had  flattened  out  into  the  endless 
plains  of  North  Dakota.  On  a  cutbank  dominating  the 


HOMEWARD  HOBOES  361 

river  at  its  bend  a  great  gloomy  house  frowns.  Here  the 
French  Marquis  de  Mores  once  lived  like  a  seigneur  of 
the  glorious  Louis,  in  crude,  patriarchal  magnificence. 
Even  in  his  lifetime  he  was  a  legend  in  this  simple  Da- 
kotan  village.  But  a  greater  legend  centres  in  a  large 
signboard  opposite  which  tells  that  Roosevelt  once 
ranched  near  by, — a  matter  of  pride  to  all  Medorans. 
Of  this  town  in  the  eighties  he  wrote,  "Medora  has  more 
than  its  full  share  of  shooting  and  stabbing  affrays,  horse 
stealing  and  cattle-lifting.  But  the  time  for  such  things 
is  passing  away." 

As  we  read  the  sign,  a  lanky  Dakotan  hovered  near, 
and  volunteered  much  information  in  a  sing-song  voice 
which  seemed  characteristic  of  the  locality.  "Right  here 
at  this  bend,"  he  said,  "they're  talking  about  putting  up 
one  of  these  here  equesterian  statutes  of  Teddy,  mounted 
on  horseback." 

Being  averse  to  stopping,  we  suggested  that  he  ride  to 
the  village  and  tell  us  what  he  had  to  tell. 

"Yes'm,"  he  continued  swinging  to  the  running  board 
without  ceasing  to  talk.  "In  this  here  town  interesting 
things  has  happened.  But  as  interesting  as  ever  hap- 
pened is  coming  off  tomorrow,  and  if  you  was  a  writer 
of  books," — a  hit  in  the  dark  on  his  part — "I  could  tell 
you  something  to  write  down.  For  there's  some  of  the 
richest  men  in  this  town,  prominent  men  with  good  busi- 
nesses,"— his  voice  took  on  an  edge  of  strong  feeling  and 
I  sensed  something  personal  in  his  excitement, — "who 
has  been  found  out  to  be  part  of  a  gang  that  has  been 
stealing  cattle  wholesale,  and  shipping  them  to  K.  C. 
There's  a  fat,  fleshy,  portly  man  that's  said  to  have  stole 
1 200  head  himself.  And  they've  been  getting  rich  on  it 


362  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

for  years,  and  would  'a  kept  on  years  more  only  one  of 
the  gang,  an  outsider,  got  caught,  and  is  turning  state's 
evidence.  There'll  be  some  excitement  when  they  begin 
to  make  arrests.  You'd  better  stay  over,  and  see  some 
doings  aint  been  seen  in  a  long  time." 

But  we  could  not  stay, — the  Drang  nach  Osten  was 
too  strong  for  us.  And  a  half-finished  story  sometimes 
is  more  alluring  than  one  with  the  edges  nicely  bound. 
Yet  I  should  like  to  have  heard  the  reason  for  the  note 
of  personal  grievance  that  shook  the  lanky  stranger's 
voice  when  he  spoke  of  the  righteous  vengeance  about  to 
fall  on  the  cattle  thieves. 

We  were  not  tempted  to  linger  in  North  Dakota.  No 
shade,  no  variety,  no  charm,  nothing  but  wheat,  wheat, 
wheat; — ruined  crops  left  to  bake  in  the  glaring  sun. 
Great  grain  elevators,  community-owned,  made  the  only 
vertical  lines  in  the  landscape.  The  rest  was  flat,  and 
to  us  stale  and  unprofitable ;  colorless  save  for  the  faintly 
rainbow-tinted  Bad  Lands.  What  little  individuality 
the  state  had  was  crude  and  dreary,  reeking  of  Town- 
leyism.  With  its  wheat,  its  per  capita  wealth,  and  its 
beyond-the-minute  legislation  I  have  been  told  it  is  one 
of  the  most  prosperous  states  of  the  Union.  It  may  be. 
I  know  some  people  like  South  Dakota, — virtuous,  pros- 
perous, solid,  yet  with  no  shade  trees,  no  bosky  nooks,  no 
charm.  I  leave  their  presence  as  quickly  as  we  left  Da- 
kota to  the  companionship  of  its  galvanized  iron  ele- 
vators. We  sympathized  with  an  old  man  who  chatted 
with  us  when  one  of  our  frequent  punctures  halted  us  in 
a  forsaken  little  hamlet.  In  fact,  it  was  hardly  a  hamlet; 
it  was  more  like  a  hamlet  with  the  hamlet  left  out.  We 
commented  on  the  drought. 


HOMEWARD  HOBOES  363 

"I  suppose  you're  used  to  it?" 

"Me?  I  guess  not!  I  don't  belong  here.  Where  I 
come  from  they've  got  a  perfect  climate. all  year  round." 

"California?"  we  asked  wearily. 

"Tacoma." 

"But  I've  heard  it's  always  raining  in  Tacoma." 

"So  it  does.  Rains  every  day  of  the  year.  There's  a 
climate  for  you.  Hope  I  get  back  to  it  some  day,  but," 
he  shook  his  head  sadly,  "I  don't  know." 

"Can't  you  sell  out?" 

"Don't  own  anything.  Just  here  on  a  visit.  Came 
here  expecting  to  stay  a  couple  a  weeks,  and  been  here 
three  years  and  nine  months." 

"That  almost  sounds  as  if  you  like  the  place." 

"Naw.  Came  on  to  bury  my  mother-in-law,  and  what 
do  you  know!"  His  sense  of  grievance  mounted  to  in- 
dignation. "She  ain't  died  yet !" 

As  we  talked  to  the  aged  man  whose  faith  in  human 
nature  had  been  so  bitterly  shattered  by  this  perfidy  in  a 
near  relative,  he  pointed  to  the  lad  who  was  mending 
our  tire. 

"That  fellow  went  through  the  war  from  start  to 
finish,"  he  said.  "Got  decorated  three  times." 

We  looked  at  the  desolate  fields  and  the  one  forlorn 
main  street,  and  wondered  how  a  hero  who  had  known 
the  tenseness  of  war  and  the  civilized  beauty  of  France 
could  endure  to  return  to  the  bleak  stupidity  of  the  town. 

"Where  were  you  stationed  in  France?"  we  asked  him. 

"Well,  I  was  everywhere, — in  the  Argonne,  at  Belleau 
Woods  and  Chattoo  Thierry,  and  all  them  places." 

"It  must  have  been  exciting." 

"Well,  it  was  pretty  hot." 


364  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

"Do  tell  us  more  about  it." 

"Well  it  was  pretty  hot, — pretty  hot." 

"Did  you  like  France?" 

"France?"  His  eyes  kindled  as  they  swept  the  bare 
prairie, — "Believe  me,  I  was  glad  to  get  back  where 
there's  something  doing.  Mud, — that's  what  France  was, 
— nothin'  but  mud!" 

The  tire  he  repaired  gave  out  before  evening,  but  we 
forgave  him.  Not  every  puncture  can  be  patched  by  a 
hero  of  Belleau  Wood.  Besides,  it  was  our  twelfth  that 
week,  and  one  more  or  less  had  become  a  matter  of 
indifference. 

At  Bismarck  mine  host  met  us  at  the  sidewalk  with, 
"Where's  the  Mister?" 

"There  15  no  Mister,"  answered  Toby,  to  whom  that 
question  was  a  red  rag.  "We  are  alone." 

What  he  said  next  is  memorable  only  because  we  were 
soon  to  hear  it  for  the  last  time,  and  its  refrain  already 
had  a  pensive  note  of  reminiscence.  But  that  we  dared 
go  so  far  from  home  Misterless  raised  his  opinion  of  us 
to  dizzy  heights,  and  after  personally  escorting  us  to  the 
garage,  where  he  made  a  eulogistic  speech  in  which  we 
figured  as  intimate  friends  for  whom  any  service  ren- 
dered would  be  a  personal  favor  to  him,  he  gave  us  the 
best  room  his  house  afforded.  Though  cozy  it  was  not 
the  best  house  in  town.  We  had  long  avoided  exclusive 
hotels.  Hardened  by  ten  thousand  miles  of  vagabond- 
age, we  had  become  completely  indifferent  to  appear- 
ances, and  wore  our  grimy  khaki  and  dusty  boots  with 
the  greatest  disregard  of  the  opinion  of  others  cither  had 
ever  attained.  While  Toby  packed  each  morning,  it  was 
my  duty  to  attend  to  the  car,  and  to  this  fact  I  could  boast 


HOMEWARD  HOBOES  365 

the  trimmer  appearance  of  the  two.  When  the  tank  was 
filled,  I  usually  sprayed  what  gasolene  remained  in  the 
hose  over  my  clothes  where  they  looked  worst,  but  Toby 
was  so  far  sunk  in  lassitude  that  she  scorned  such  primp- 
ing. Her  suit  was  a  collection  of  souvenirs  of  delightful 
hours.  A  smudge  on  the  left  knee  recalled  where  she 
rested  her  tin  plate  in  the  Canyon  de  Chelley.  Down  the 
front  a  stain  showed  where  Hostein  Chee  had  upset  a 
cup  of  coffee.  Her  elbows  were  coated  with  a  paste  of 
grease  and  dirt  from  innumerable  tires,  and  minor  spots 
checkerboarded  her  from  chin  to  knee.  As  a  precaution, 
when  we  had  to  stay  at  a  first  class  hotel,  I  usually  left 
Toby  outside  while  I  registered.  Though  the  clerk  never 
looked  favorably  upon  me,  he  would  give  me  a  room, 
usually  on  the  fourteenth  floor  if  they  went  that  high. 
Then,  before  he  could  see  Toby  I  would  smuggle  her 
hurriedly  across  to  the  elevator.  Sometimes  she  refused 
to  be  hurried,  but  examined  postcards  and  magazines  on 
the  way,  indifferent  to  the  amazed,  immaculate  eyes 
turned  toward  us. 

"I  always  maintain, "  she  contended  when  I  remon- 
strated with  her,  "that  a  person  is  well  dressed  if  all  her 
clothes  are  of  the  same  sort,  no  matter  what  sort  they 


are." 


"In  that  case,"  I  said,  "you  are  undoubtedly  well- 
dressed." 

Secure  in  this  consciousness,  Toby  sat  down  in  the 
lobby  of  our  Bismarck  hotel  with  two  dozen  postcards 
which  she  proceeded  to  address  to  her  sisters  and  her 
cousins  and  her  aunts.  As  she  warmed  to  her  work,  she 
gradually  spread  out  until  the  cards  covered  the  desk.  A 
fellow  lodger  watched  her,  and  finally  rose  and  stood 


366  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

beside  her,  curiosity  gleaming  from  his  eyes  and  reflecting 
in  his  gold  teeth  which  glittered  as  he  spoke. 

"Say!  If  you're  going  east" — he  thrust  a  handful  of 
business  cards  in  her  hands  as  he  spoke — "maybe  you'd 
just  as  lief  distribute  some  of  my  cards  with  your  own, 
as  you  go  along." 

Something  I  recognized  as  Cantabrigian,  but  he  did 
not,  in  Toby's  expression  made  him  add  propitiatingly, 
"Of  course  I'd  expect  to  do  the  same  for  you.  What's 
your  line, — postcards?" 

When  what  remained  of  him  had  thawed  out  suf- 
ficiently to  fade  away  I  ventured  to  look  at  his  cards. 
They  read,  "Portable  Plumbing  and  Bath  Fixings." 

"According  to  your  theory,"  I  consoled  Toby,  "in  pre- 
senting a  convincing  and  consistent  appearance  as  a  lady 
drummer  for  postcards  and  plumbing,  you  are  well 
dressed.  Therefore  the  poor  man  was  only  paying  you  a 
compliment ' ' 

"He  was  fresh,"  said  Toby.     "Just  fresh." 

Only  as  we  were  leaving  Dakota  did  we  see  a  touch 
of  homeliness, — in  Fargo,  a  green,  cozy  place,  full  of 
neat,  comfortable  homes.  As  we  crossed  the  state  line 
here  into  Minnesota,  instantly  a  change  appeared.  The 
air  became  moist  and  unirritating.  Meadows  and  leafy 
forests,  such  as  we  have  in  New  England,  dozens  of 
black,  quiet  lakes  and  little,  sparkling  streams,  long  wheat 
fields  shaded  by  boundary  rows  of  oaks,  with  six-horse 
teams  harvesting  grain  flashed  by  us.  Flock  upon  flock 
of  red- winged  and  jet  black  blackbirds  and  wild  ducks 
flashed  from  the  reedy  pools,'  whirring  into  the  woods. 
We  would  have  liked  leisure  to  camp  on  the  shores  of 
some  secluded  pond  until  the  spirit  moved  us  on. 


HOMEWARD  HOBOES  367 

We  saw  something  more  in  Minnesota  than  her  black- 
birds and  lakes  and  pretty  woods  and  fields,  her  maca- 
dam roads  and  beautiful  twin  cities,  frowning  at  each 
other  from  the  high  banks  of  the  Mississippi.  We  saw 
the  West  fade,  and  give  place  to  the  East.  The  easy- 
going, slap-dash,  restless,  generous,  tolerant,  gossipy, 
plastic,  helpful,  jealous  West  was  departing,  not  to  re- 
appear even  sporadically.  In  its  place  we  began  to  en- 
counter caution,  neatness,  method,  the  feeling  for  prop- 
erty and  the  fear  of  strangers,  that  we  were  brought  up 
with.  We  were  clicking  back  into  the  groove  of  prece- 
dent and  established  order,  no  stronger,  if  as  strong,  on 
the  Eastern  seaboard  than  here.  We  could  almost  put 
our  finger  on  the  very  town  along  the  Red  Trail  where 
we  noticed  the  transition.  It  was  not  Miles  City  nor 
Glendive, — Montana  is  still  entirely  western;  it  was  not 
Bismarck  nor  the  bleak  little  town  of  Casselton,  west  of 
Fargo.  Probably  it  was  Fargo  that  we  should  have 
marked  for  the  pivotal  town.  At  least  the  slight  struggle 
a  few  villages  beyond  made  to  suggest  the  old,  beloved 
West  was  soon  quenched  by  the  encroaching  East.  Some 
call  the  West  Seattle,  others  Syracuse,  N.  Y.,  but  I  be- 
lieve that  Fargo  very  nearly  marks  the  division.  Graz- 
ing, sheep  and  cattle-raising  increasingly  lost  place  to  the 
industries,  city-building  and  manufactures,  from  this  point 
eastward  until  they  disappeared  altogether. 

Our  last  experience  with  what  for  lack  of  a  neater 
phrase  I  have  called  western  chivalry,  occurred  at  a 
charming  little  town  named  St.  Cloud,  near  Minneapolis. 
Our  fourteenth  and  last  puncture  was  changed  and 
mended  for  us  at  an  upto-the-second  garage.  When  we 


368  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

inquired  what  we  owed  we  received  a  smile  and  the 
answer,  "No  charge  for  ladies. " 

"But  you  worked  half  an  hour." 

"Glad  to  do  it.  Come  again  when  you  have  a  punc- 
ture, and  we'll  charge  you  the  same." 

From  this  point  till  we  reached  home,  we  met  with 
respectful  treatment,  but  no  suggestion  that  we  belonged 
to  a  sex  to  whom  special  privileges  must  be  accorded. 
That  is  what  old-fashioned  people  used  to  say  would 
happen  when  women  had  the  vote.  Yet  we  were  leaving 
the  pioneer  suffrage  states,  and  entering  the  anti's  last 
stand. 

Wisconsin  surely  is  not  the  West,  though  we  found  it 
a  fruitful,  welcoming  state  anyone  would  be  glad  to  live 
in.  We  got  an  impression  of  rolling  fields,  in  brilliant 
patchwork  of  varying  grains,  like  a  glorified  bedquilt 
spread  under  the  sun;  elms  and  summer  haze,  and  a 
tangle  of  shade  by  the  road;  lazy,  prosperous  farm- 
steads, fat  Dutch  cattle,  silver-green  tobacco  crops.  The 
predominant  impression  was  of  gold  and  blue, — stacked 
wheat  against  the  sky.  Madison,  into  which  we  rolled 
one  Sunday  morning,  presents  an  unhurried  and  stately 
best  to  the  tourist,  who  sees  it  unprejudiced  by  miles  of 
slatternly  outskirts.  He  conies  quickly  to  the  Capitol, 
which  is  as  it  should  be,  the  logical  center  of  the  town. 
Flanked  by  dignified  University  buildings  set  in  green 
gardens,  the  State  House  stands  in  grounds  planned  to 
set  off  its  perfect  proportions.  Without  making  it  an 
object,  we  had  seen  many  state  Capitols, — Arizona's, 
New  Mexico's,  Utah's,  Montana's,  North  Dakota's, 
Minnesota's — and  some  were  imposing  and  some  merely 
distressing.  All,  whatever  their  shortcomings,  had  a 


HOMEWARD  HOBOES  369 

dome,  as  if  it  were  a  requirement  of  the  Federal  Consti- 
tution that  whether  it  has  honesty,  dignity,  grace  or  pro- 
portion, a  state  building  must  have  a  dome.  In  poor 
Boston,  the  dome  has  nearly  disappeared  under  an  attack 
of  elephantiasis  affecting  the  main  body,  as  if  someone 
had  given  the  State  House  an  overdose  of  yeast  and  set 
it  in  a  warm  place  after  forgetting  to  put  any  "risings" 
in  the  dome.  Santa  Fe's  is  modest  and  pretty  enough. 
Salt  Lake's  is  impressive  and  cold  and  very  fine,  but 
leaves  one  with  no  more  of  a  taste  for  Capitols  than 
before  seeing  it.  Helena's  is  atrocious, — a  bombastic 
dome  overtopping  a  puny  body,  and  Arizona's  is  so  like 
all  the  others  I  cannot  recall  it  in  any  respect.  But  Wis- 
consin's has  charm  and  beauty,  dignity  and  proportion, 
—all  that  an  architect  strives  and  usually  fails  to  get  in 
one  building.  Most  capitols  leave  one  unimpressed,  but 
this  is  so  satisfying  and  inspiring  one  wonders  how  its 
corridors  can  send  forth  such  unpromising  statesmen. 

Our  homeward  journey  seemed  nearly  ended  before  we 
reached  Chicago.  Driving  over  these  perfectly  kept 
roads  of  the  middle  west  furnished  no  new  experience. 
We  decided  to  shorten  the  remaining  interval  still  further 
by  taking  the  Detroit  boat  to  Buffalo.  When  we  sud- 
denly made  this  decision  we  had  less  than  two  days  to 
make  the  340  miles, — time  enough,  except  for  the  state 
of  our  tires,  which  resembled  that  mid-Victorian  neu- 
rasthenic Sweet  Alice  Ben  Bolt.  They  collapsed  if  you 
gave  them  a  smile,  and  blew  out  at  fear  of  a  frown. 
No  longer  in  the  belt  of  chivalry,  we  toiled  over  obstre- 
perous rims,  warped  and  bent  from  drought  and  flood, 
while  able  bodied  men  sailed  by,  and  the  only  speech  we 
had  from  them  was  an  occasional  jeering,  "Hello,  girls!" 


370  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

Thus  we  knew  we  were  fast  returning  to  civilization.  As 
we  made  out  our  bill  of  lading  at  Detroit  we  heard  for 
the  last  time,  "Well,  you  are  a  long  ways  from  home." 
After  that  we  felt  we  had  already  completed  our  period 
of  vagabondage. 

But  the  fates  were  not  to  let  us  finish  tamely.  The  last 
act  of  our  drama  began  when  our  rear  tire  gave  way,  and 
lost  us  two  hours  while  we  waited  for  repairs,  just  out 
of  Chicago.  The  eastern  entrance  to  Chicago,  with  its 
unsightly,  factory-pocked  marshes  is  cheerless  enough 
even  under  blue  skies.  But  a  soggy  downpour  only 
made  us  shiver  and  hurry  on.  Chicago  was  well  enough, 
as  cities  go,  but  the  middle  west  did  not  hold  us,  having 
neither  the  courtesy  of  the  South,  the  wide  beauty  of  the 
West  nor  the  self-respecting  antiquity  of  the  East.  Yet 
here  and  there  in  the  open  country  of  Illinois,  with  its 
broad  golden  wheat  fields,  tall  elms,  and  its  homelike 
blue  haze  softening  distant  woods,  a  bit  of  English 
Warwickshire  peeped  out  at  us. 

The  drizzle  soon  settled  into  a  steady  downpour.  All 
day  we  slushed  over  glistening  macadam  and  through  the 
heavy  mud  of  section  roads.  Night  fell  early  under  the 
gloom  of  the  rain  while  we  were  still  many  miles  from 
the  end  of  our  day's  stint.  We  decided  to  go  as  long  as 
we  could,  or  we  never  should  reach  Detroit  in  time. 
Camping  was  out  of  the  question, — Illinois  was  too 
civilized  for  it  to  be  safe  procedure.  So  in  deference  to 
the  solemn  midwestern  habit  of  laying  out  their  country 
like  a  checkerboard,  we  paced  so  many  miles  east,  so 
many  miles  south. 

We  left  tracks  in  three  states  that  day,  the  Yellow- 
stone Trail  dipping  unexpectedly  into  Indiana,  seen  too 


HOMEWARD  HOBOES  371 

late  and  briefly  to  leave  any  impression  but  of  an  ex- 
cellent cafeteria  at  South  Bend.  Some  time  after  dark, 
our  sense  of  direction  took  a  nose  dive,  and  was  perma- 
nently injured.  At  half-past  eight  we  reckoned  the  miles, 
and  knew  there  was  to  be  no  rest  for  the  weary  if  we 
were  to  reach  Detroit  next  day.  Hopelessly  lost  by  now, 
confused  by  many  arguments,  backings  and  turnings,  we 
knocked,  somewhere  in  Indiana,  at  a  Hoosier  door,  and 
an  old  man  in  his  stocking  feet  came  out,  calling  lovingly, 
"That  you,  dear?"  We  almost  wished  we  were  his 
dear,  and  might  rest  in  the  yellow  glow  of  his  parlor 
instead  of  pushing  on  in  the  dark.  We  were  several 
miles  off  our  bearings  in  both  directions  it  seemed.  He 
told  us  off  nine  turns  to  the  east  and  four  to  the  north 
to  straighten  us  out,  and  we  went  on  into  the  night  and 
the  storm.  We  had  gone  out  into  the  night  and  storm  so 
often  that  no  heroine  of  melodrama  could  tell  us  any- 
thing about  either.  But  being  by  this  time  completely 
disorientated,  instead  of  traveling  nine  east  and  four 
north,  as  they  say  in  the  easy  vernacular  of  the  midwest, 
we  went  instead  nine  west  and  four  south,  and  came  out 
at  a  lonely  crossroads,  the  kind  at  which  a  murderer 
might  appropriately  be  buried.  Our  arithmetic  was  quite 
unequal  to  adding  and  subtracting  our  mistakes.  Seeing 
a  house  with  one  light  burning,  I  reached  its  door  to 
ask  directions.  There,  unashamed,  through  the  lighted 
window,  a  lady  sat  in  her  nightdress,  braiding  her  hair. 
I  backed  away,  not  wishing  to  embarrass  her.  It  was 
not  as  if  I  were  one  of  the  neighbors,  whom  she  seemed 
not  to  mind.  A  dismal  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  another 
light  gleamed.  I  walked  to  it.  An  old  woman  cautiously 
put  her  head  out  of  the  door.  She  too  was  in  an  honest 


372  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

flannel  nightie,  and  I  concluded  that  the  mid-west  wears 
its  nightgear  unabashed.  My  sudden  appearance,  and 
especially  the  fact  of  my  inquiring  for  a  great  city  like 
Detroit,  was  not  reassuring  to  her.  She  asked  suspi- 
ciously if  I  were  alone  and  at  my  answer,  exclaimed, 
"Aint  you  afraid?" 

Her  question  gave  me  genuine  amazement.  I  had 
forgotten  that  in  the  eastern  section  of  our  country  peo- 
ple are  afraid  of  each  other,  and  I  had  grown  so  far 
away  from  it  that  I  laughed  and  said,  "Not  in  the  least." 
She  seemed  to  think  this  marvelous.  A  motherly  old 
soul,  her  sympathy  struggled  hard  with  her  fear  that  I 
was  bent  on  forcing  a  violent  entrance  into  her  house,  but 
finally  the  baser  suspicions  won  and  she  shut  the  door 
firmly  on  me  until  she  could  confer  with  "Pa."  He,  being 
bolder,  came  openly  to  the  porch  in  his, — was  it  pajamas 
or  nightshirt? — I  can  hardly  say,  because  not  to  embar- 
rass him  I  only  looked  past  his  snowy  beard  and  into  his 
nice  blue  eyes.  He  directed  us.  We  were  to  go  seven 
north  and  thirteen  west. 

For  half  an  hour  the  sleepy  Toby  and  I  wrestled  with 
the  problem  of  where  we  now  were,  how  far  from  our 
starting  point,  from  our  destination,  from  our  last  check- 
ing up, — till  we  feared  for  our  reason.  Like  a  ballad 
refrain,  we  went  seven  miles  south  and  thirteen  west, 
-—but  instead  of  a  town  met  a  pine  forest.  So,  a  few 
miles  more  or  less  meaning  nothing  to  us,  we  threw  in 
several  to  the  north  and  a  couple  east,  with  the  same 
unpromising  result.  At  the  rate  we  were  going,  I  ex- 
pected to  reach  either  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  or  the  Pacific 
Ocean  by  morning. 

Once  we  heard  the  whirr  of  a  mighty  engine  over  our 


HOMEWARD  HOBOES  373 

heads, — some  belated  airman,  lost  like  ourselves  doubt- 
less in  the  rain  above  us.  If  anything  could  have  made 
us  feel  lonelier  than  we  had,  it  would  have  been  this 
evidence  of  an  unseen  neighbor  who  shared  the  night 
and  the  storm  with  us. 

We  came  to  another  house.  I  stopped  the  car. 
Neither  of  us  moved.  "I  went  last  time,"  I  said  point- 
edly. 

"Huh-yah-yah,"  protested  Toby,  but  I  did  not  yield, 
because  I  had  fallen  asleep.  She  wearily  tottered  out  to 
the  house,  and  brought  back  a  Hoosier  farmer  with  her, 
who  fastened  his  suspenders  as  he  came. 

"You're  some  out  of  your  way,"  he  said,  unnecessarily, 
ubut  five  east  and  eight  south  you'll  find  a  small  hotel 
where  you  can  spend  the  night." 

"Is  it  all  right?"  I  asked  dubiously. 

"Well,"  he  considered,  "being  a  neighbor,  I  don't  like 
to  say.  You  might  like  it  better  at  Orland,  seven  miles 
further." 

We  decided  on  Orland  and  slushed  along  in  mud  so 
thick  we  could  hardly  hold  the  wheel  stiff.  Suddenly 
we  heard  an  ominous  sound, — a  steady  thump,  thump, 
thump.  I  got  out  in  the  downpour  and  looked  at  the  tires. 
They  were  hard.  I  peered  at  the  engine.  It  purred  with 
a  mighty  purr.  So  I  climbed  in  again,  and  we  started 
hopefully;  again  came  the  heavy  thumping,  a  sound  fit 
to  rack  a  car  into  bits.  However,  as  the  engine  still  func- 
tioned we  decided  to  go  as  long  as  we  could,  though  the 
noise  struck  terror  to  our  hearts.  We  were  too  weary 
and  wet  to  wallow  in  the  mud  and  dark,  investigating 
engine  troubles.  I  drove  cautiously,  and  after  what 
seemed  hours  we  reached  Orland.  The  thumping  now 


374  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

had  become  violent,  but  we  didn't  care.  A  roof  and  a 
bed  were  practically  within  our  grasp. 

It  was  a  neat  little  town  with  white  buildings  and 
shady  trees.  Had  we  been  motoring  through  on  a  sunny 
afternoon  we  might  have  said,  "What  a  sweet  place!" 
But  we  were  too  tired  for  aesthetic  appreciation.  Across 
the  street  was  a  large,  comfortable  white  hotel,  with 
broad  hospitable  porch.  We  hastened  to  rap  on  the  door. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  we  ceased  to  hasten,  but 
we  continued  to  knock  intermittently.  Then  Toby  blew 
the  horn  as  viciously  as  she  knew  how.  The  silent  town 
seemed  to  recoil  from  our  rude  noise  and  gather  the  bed 
quilts  closer  about  it.  But  no  response  came  from  the 
hotel.  From  the  second  floor  came  sounds  of  slumbering. 
Becoming  expert  we  counted  three  people  asleep.  The 
three  snores  dwindled  to  two  snores  and  a  cough,  after 
our  experiment  with  the  horn,  and  later  diminished  to  a 
cough  and  two  voices,  speaking  in  whispers.  We  wanted 
to  call  out  that  we  knew  they  were  awake,  and  why  didn't 
they  come  down  and  let  us  in,  but  we  knew  they  had  no 
intention  of  stirring.  We  were  in  a  state  of  enraged 
helplessness.  We  rapped  until  it  was  quite  apparent  the 
hotel  was  resolved  not  to  establish  a  dangerous  precedent 
by  admitting  strangers  after  midnight.  Then  we  gave  up. 
But  Orland  owed  us  a  bed  and  if  we  could  we  were  going 
to  exact  it.  We  felt  as  if  it  were  a  duel  between  the  town 
and  ourselves. 

Our  last  knock  brought  a  head  from  a  little  room  over 
the  store  next  door,  and  a  woman's  voice  called,  "Who 
is  it?" 

"Two  ladies  from  Boston,"  we  answered,  guilefully 
using  the  magic  words  which  in  happier  climes  had 


HOMEWARD  HOBOES  375 

brought  cheerful  repartee  and  prompt  sustenance.  We 
did  not  get  the  expected  reaction,  but  her  tone  was  appre- 
hensive, if  kind,  when  she  asked,  "What  do  you  want?" 

We  told  her,  though  she  might  have  guessed. 

"Knock  again,"  she  said.  "There's  someone  there. 
They  ought  to  hear  you." 

"They  hear  us  all  right,"  we  said,  loud  enough  for 
the  cough  and  two  voices  not  to  miss,  "but  they  won' t  let 
us  in.  Do  you  know  of  any  place  where  we  can  go?" 

"I'd  take  you  in  here,"  said  the  voice, — the  only  sign 
of  hospitality  we  had  from  Orland  that  night, — "but  my 
husband  and  I  have  one  room,  and  the  children  the 
other." 

Even  standing  on  an  alien  sidewalk  at  two-thirty  A.  M. 
in  the  rain  we  felt  less  forlorn  now  that  we  had  someone 
to  talk  to.  A  male  rumble  made  a  quartette  of  our  trio, 
which  after  a  discussion,  she  reported. 

"He  says  you  might  try  Uncle  Ollie's."  Her  voice 
implied  she  thought  the  suggestion  barren. 

I  dared  not  let  her  see  we  didn't  know  Uncle  Ollie  for 
fear  it  might  prejudice  this  suspicious  hamlet  against  us. 
So  I  queried  cautiously,  "Now,  just  where  does  he  live?" 
as  if  it  had  only  slipped  my  mind  for  the  moment. 

"Go  down  the  road  a  piece  and  turn  west, — it's  the 
second  house.  But  I  dunno  whether  you'll  be  able  to 
wake  him.  He's  kinder  deaf." 

We  thanked  her,  and  said  goodnight  and  she  wished 
us  good  luck.  We  bumped  the  damaged  old  lady  down 
the  main  street,  her  thumpings  making  such  a  racket  that 
we  expected  the  constable  to  arrest  us  any  moment  for 
disturbing  the  peace.  We  had,  however,  no  intention  of 
trying  Uncle  Ollie's. 


376  WESTWARD  HOBOES 

A  half  mile  further,  within  a  pretty  white  cottage  set 
shyly  from  the  road,  we  saw  a  light  burning.  This  was 
so  unusual  for  Orland  that  we  invaded  the  premises  with 
new  hope.  Toby  being  again  comatose,  I  waded  wearily 
to  the  door  and  knocked.  A  frightened  girl's  voice  an- 
swered, and  its  owner  appeared  at  the  door.  I  shall 
always  think  of  Indiana  and  Michigan  as  a  succession  of 
old  and  young  standing  on  doorsteps  in  their  nightgowns. 

"Who  is  it?"  called  a  voice  from  an  inner  room. 

"Two  women  want  a  place  to  spend  the  night,  gran'- 
maw,"  answered  the  girl. 

"Well,  don't  you  let  'em  in  here,"  answered  gran'maw. 

"No,  I  don't  know  of  any  place,"  the  girl  translated 
gran'maw  to  us,  shutting  the  door. 

"Of  all  churlish  towns !"  we  said,  left  on  the  doorstep. 
But  it  was  not  a  just  criticism.  We  had  simply  crossed 
the  line  where  west  is  east,  where  a  stranger  is  perforce 
a  suspicious  character.  Back  in  New  England  would  we 
have  let  in  two  strange  women  after  midnight?  Their 
asking  to  come  in  would  have  been  proof  presumptive 
they  were  either  criminal  or  crazy. 

Our  duel  lost  we  drew  up  the  old  lady  in  a  gutter  under 
some  dripping  elms,  and  lay  down  to  a  belated  sleep 
among  the  baggage, — Toby  in  one  seat,  I  in  another. 
In  a  twinkling  we  sat  up,  refreshed,  to  broad  daylight 
and  a  shining  morning  sky.  Our  first  thought  was  to 
search  for  the  car's  internal  injuries,  fearing  greatly  they 
might  prevent  us  going  further.  There  were  none.  Two 
tumors  the  size  of  a  large  potato  on  our  front  tire  re- 
vealed the  cause  of  the  noise.  The  marvel  was  that  the 
tire  had  not  collapsed  as  a  finishing  touch  to  last  night's 
dismal  story.  Luck,  in  its  peculiar  way,  was  again  with  us. 


HOMEWARD  HOBOES  377 

While  we  changed  to  our  last  spare  tire,  Toby  straight- 
ened up  for  a  moment,  and  suddenly  broke  into  a  bitter, 
sardonic  laugh.  "Will  you  look  at  that!"  she  said, 
pointing  overhead. 

Directly  above  our  patient  car  a  large,  brightly  painted 
sign  flapped  energetically  in  the  clearing  breeze.  It 
read,  in  letters  a  yard  high,  "Welcome  to  Orland!" 


7 

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